


You Only Live Once

by Chromi



Series: Take My Breath Away [Tumblr SFW Prompt Fills] [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Needles, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piercings, Sleepy Cuddles, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 33,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/pseuds/Chromi
Summary: Ficlets that were originally posted in response to prompts on Tumblr. Features various pairings and gen chapters - characters are labelled in the chapter titles.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Portgas D. Ace, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Shirohige | Whitebeard | Edward Newgate, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Thatch, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Masked Deuce, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Thatch, Koala/Sabo (One Piece), Masked Deuce & Portgas D. Ace, Masked Deuce/Portgas D. Ace, Portgas D. Ace & Sabo, Portgas D. Ace & Thatch, Portgas D. Ace & Whitebeard Pirates, Sabo & Vinsmoke Sanji, Skull (One Piece) & Portgas D. Ace, Spade Pirates & Portgas D. Ace
Series: Take My Breath Away [Tumblr SFW Prompt Fills] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017327
Comments: 144
Kudos: 366





	1. Gen - Ace, Thatch, Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted by the message "bPLEAse ThATch,," and it kicked off my love of ficlet-writing-on-tumblr!

“Never trust a man who used to be a feral jungle brat,” Thatch sighed to himself, “it will only end in tears. My tears, to be precise.”

Ace squirmed beside him, clearly uncomfortable. “Look,” he said, voice edging into desperate, “I said I was sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean—”

“You broke my fucking nose,” Thatch snapped, wincing as Marco dabbed at the blood that was congealing on his face, “you, my very own Sunshine Child, have turned against me and destroyed my beautiful face. The hell is wrong with you?”

“_You_ moved at the last second,” Ace huffed, trying to defend himself, “I was aiming for Douma, you know I was.”

Thatch whimpered in pain when Marco pressed the damp towel a little too hard against him. 

“I personally raise you, love you, shower you with my affections and transform you from this little ball of angst into a wonderful young man, and this is how you thank me. Well, you know what? No more midnight snacks for you. That’s right,” he added with a sideways glance at Ace’s horrified expression, “I’m serious. From now on, if I see you hanging around the kitchens after they’re closed, I’ll break _your _freckly nose.”

“Now hang on a minute, there’s such a thing as going too far, Thatch—”

“Oh, this is nothing, boy. You want to see me go too far? Do you? No dinner tonight for you. Nothing. And Marco, don’t you dare slip him anything; I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

“You can’t do that!” Ace wheezed, shocked that his good friend would punish him so severely.

“Can’t I? Watch me.”

“Thatch,” Marco said quickly, cutting in front of Ace’s protest, “you are aware that I can heal the break, right? You don’t need to be so harsh on him; you’ll be fine once I clean you up.”

Thatch puffed out his chest indignantly. “Of course I know that,” he said, “but that’s not the _point_, Marco. The point is that _he _attacked me.”

“It was an accident!”

“Silence, traitor!”

“Oh my _God_, Thatch.”


	2. Marco/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "kiss in public".

He has been gone for so long. The two-day mission had stretched out beyond two _weeks_, keeping him quarantined to the island that was fighting an outbreak of a particularly aggressive form of the flu.

The comms guy of the day who had taken his call home had laughed at him. “Seriously?” He had giggled, “you’re having trouble against _the flu?”_

Marco hadn’t had the patience to explain that yes, some strains of this thing had the ability to kill the healthy, and it was his damn job to make sure that didn’t happen.

But he was home now, and nothing mattered as he touched down on feet that flashed from bird to human in a flurry of flames. Not the comms man, not the islanders who were probably still celebrating their quarantine lift, and not the fact that his shoulders ached from having flown too far for too long, excited to get back.

The only thing that mattered right now was Ace, standing there among the crowd, his face shining brighter than the rest of the men put together. Ace, bouncing from one foot to the other as Marco descended, shoving his way to the front without a care for how he knocked into the others, his impeccable manners forgotten for the moment.

And Ace, flinging his arms around his neck with a grin, stepping in close.

The feel of Ace’s warm lips to his when Marco forgot himself in the blinding light of that smile, pulling him in by the waist and kissing him.

In front of _everyone_.

They broke apart when someone from the crowd wolf-whistled them, earning a chorus of rumbling laughter from the men. Marco snapped at them to shut up, yet he was unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

“You’re all just jealous because you wish it was _you_ giving him his ‘welcome home’ kiss,” Ace laughed, tightening his hold around Marco’s neck and bringing them cheek to cheek.

“Can’t argue with that!” Someone shouted, raising more roars of laughter from everyone gathered.

“Think he mighta missed you, Commander,” a middle-aged man from the first division yelled through cupped hands.

“Did you?” Marco grinned, turning back to Ace, forehead to forehead, hands trailing patterns to the warm skin of the younger’s back.

Ace hummed, stroking his thumbs into the nape of Marco’s neck. “A bit. Maybe. Sort of,” he smiled.

Marco tilted to kiss Ace again, suddenly not minding in the slightest that they had an audience, or that said audience was whooping and cheering merrily for them.

Maybe he should go off on long missions more often…


	3. Gen - Deuce, Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, “I care about you! A lot! And when I see you running off into danger, it scares me. It makes me think of a world without you, and I don’t want to think about that, because it tears me to pieces. Maybe that makes me selfish, but I don’t care, so long as I get to be selfish with you!”
> 
> Please note that Deuce expresses anxiety that Ace might have suicidal ideation, which Ace refutes.
> 
> Can also be read as Deuce/Ace.

“I care about you! A lot! And when I see you running off into danger, it scares me. It makes me think of a world without you, and I don’t want to think about that, because it tears me to pieces. Maybe that makes me selfish, but I don’t care, so long as I get to be selfish with you!”

Ace stared at Deuce in shock, tankard in his hand all but forgotten. Deuce trembled where he stood, breath labored and teeth bared, daring Ace to laugh at him, to challenge his outburst and maybe put him in his place.

Only Ace never did do things like that. Not to Deuce, and not to anyone in their crew.

“A world without me in it wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Ace said lightly, recovering from his surprise. “C'mon Deuce, just last night you were kicking off because I bothered you right in the middle of—”

“That doesn’t mean I want you _gone__!”_ Deuce snarled, fists balled. “All the stupid shit you pull, all the fights you leap into without a single regard for your own life - sometimes I can’t sleep at night, worrying about you! I have to stand outside your door and check you’re snoring in there before I can calm down! What would I do if you snuck away at night to go prove yourself in a fit of dumbassery, or—” he shoved a hand through his hair, turning the usual sleek locks rumpled and messy, “or what if you do something deliberate and I find you dead one morning?”

“Deuce, I would never—”

“I don’t know that!” Deuce shouted, and suddenly the seething anger gave way to something far more fragile and delicate, something that Deuce continuously did his best to keep wrapped up at all times. “I don’t know what goes on in your head, Ace, but it isn’t good! And I—” his chest heaved, fighting back a sob, “and I can’t stand the thought of you going looking for more than you can handle in the hopes that someday…”

Deuce sniffed angrily and tore his mask from his eyes to rub at them with his sleeve. Ace stood and moved to touch him, but Deuce shrugged away.

“Don’t,” he said, voice thick through his coat sleeve and tears. “I don’t need your pity.”

“How about my love, then?”

And Ace pulled him into a hug that was hotter than any Deuce had ever had, Ace’s bare skin burning, comforting, melting away the terror that had seemed to freeze his first mate’s heart solid.

“You’re welcome to be selfish,” Ace said gently as Deuce shook with barely repressed sobs. “In fact, I encourage it. You’re my voice of reason, Deuce. You keep me on the straight and narrow. I need to hear this from you. And you don’t have to worry.”

“Yes, I do,” Deuce cried into the curve of Ace’s neck, burying his face into that achingly familiar scent of his captain, “I can’t live without you, Ace. My life has no meaning without you in it. Don’t make me…” his voice cracked and he swallowed, “don’t make me have to face losing you. Don’t ever run off on your own like earlier again. Please.”

“I won’t die,” Ace consoled him, stroking warm fingers through his hair as his shoulder got wetter and wetter with Deuce’s tears, “I made a promise to Luffy when we were kids that I wouldn’t, so I won’t. Nice and simple.”

Deuce sniffed noisily against Ace and laughed weakly. “God, you’re an idiot.” As if that could ever protect anyone.

Ace huffed a silent laugh. “Your idiot, though.”

“My idiot.”


	4. Marco/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "It could be worse. They could be dating. Wait? They are?!"

“Those two,” Thatch muttered, leaning in so close to Deuce that their heads almost touched, “are insufferable. Don’t you think? I don’t think I’ve seen one without the other for… jeez, I can’t even remember anymore.”

Deuce followed Thatch’s nod over his shoulder. He glanced over to where Marco and Ace sat huddled together at a table not too far from their position at the bar, clearly deep in conversation and happily oblivious to the goings-on around them. 

Deuce took a sip of his drink before answering. If Thatch had only dragged him away from the chapter he was in the middle of writing to bitch about their best friends, then the chef would find himself lacking his chosen drinking partner very soon.

“Not really,” Deuce said, refusing to partake in Thatch’s constant whining about how Marco never paid attention to him anymore, “I think it’s great that Ace is so comfortable with Marco now. They seem to make each other really happy.”

“Hm,” Thatch didn’t sound convinced. “Marco does usually make a habit of trying to get the new recruits comfortable within the crew, but that role shoulda ended months ago. He stopped bothering you, like, the day after you accepted his offer to join, didn’t he? Well, Ace has been well-integrated for _ages _now. Still,” he cracked his shoulder, groaning at the relief, “could be worse, I suppose. They could be dating or something.”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Deuce asked, genuinely surprised. “They’ve been together for weeks now.”

“They _what?!” _Thatch exploded, spilling beer all over the bar counter as he thumped his tankard down. “They _are?!”_

“Yeah,” Deuce said, alarmed at Thatch’s reaction, “how have you missed that? They’re always together, as you so crudely observed, and doesn’t Ace’s room share a wall with yours?”

“Oh my god,” Thatch moaned into his hands, “oh my _god_, Deuce, no, don’t put that image in my head, please.”

“I thought you knew,” Deuce admitted, “and that was why you were so annoyed with them all the time. Your crush on Marco is frighteningly obvious, by the way.”

“My _what now?!” _


	5. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in."

They had promised they would stop this. _This_. Fanning the flame they held for each other, feelings running out of control and emotions rampant with need for one another. They had agreed, had they not, that this was to stop once their old crew was disbanded? That they would no longer indulge in each other, that whatever desires they had given into before, were gone, ended, and they would be _professional _and _decent _now?

And yet Ace had cornered him, and more importantly, Deuce had _let him_.

Unnaturally warm hands braced themselves against Deuce’s chest, and Deuce watched the way the Adam’s apple in Ace’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He was too close, and this was too much for Deuce to be dealing with if Ace was just going to change his mind again at the last second.

All thoughts of protesting were wiped clean from Deuce’s mind when Ace pressed up against him properly, hips flush against Deuce’s, hands sliding upwards to tangle in his hair, possessive and tugging a little. Ace was _hot_ against him, as he always had been, and everything about this felt so _right._

“Ace,” Deuce gasped, unable to tear his eyes away from Ace’s – he was sure he wore the same expression as he, eyes lidded with something dark and dangerous, lips parted and shiny from where he had licked them nervously, “we can’t do this.”

Something in Ace’s eyes flickered, and Deuce yearned for it to consume him.

“I know,” Ace’s voice was barely more than a whisper, “it’s not good for us, being so reliant on each other.”

“Right. Exactly.”

Yet neither made any attempts to move. Ace’s pulse sped up against Deuce’s chest, his heart working frantically as they searched each other’s eyes for a hint that the other actually wanted this to stop, and Ace’s skin at his waist felt like it was heating up under Deuce’s hands.

“So,” Deuce swallowed, “you should probably… move away.”

Ace gave no indication that he was going to do so.

“You should let go of me, then,” Ace prompted quietly, but Deuce was also just as guilty for not doing as instructed.

Ace’s face was so close, mere inches from Deuce’s, his fingers continuously carding through his hair at the back of his neck, silently urging, _pleading_, for Deuce to dip his head, to move as they both knew he wanted to.

“I can’t do that,” Deuce admitted, merely a breath sighed, “I can’t let you go.”

“Then,” Ace’s lashes fluttered against his freckled skin, “we have a problem.”

Deuce didn’t trust himself to nod and bring Ace’s lips any closer. “We do.”

Oh, but how he wanted him. How Ace so clearly longed to have him back, too. How _stupid_ this was, this self-imposed ban on the man who made Deuce feel like life was actually worth living. How, and why, had this even started? Who had decided, and when, that they needed to try and act like they weren’t desperately in love with each other?

Ace hummed as if in thought, but Deuce knew he had already made his mind up. Pushing his ex-first mate up against the wall of his shared bedroom had been no accident, and doing it when Ace knew full well that Deuce’s division were currently involved in a raucous drinking game on deck was without a doubt part of the plan. Ace would have known that Deuce had no intention of joining his men, taking himself to bed instead of pretending he was anything close to happy ever since he and Ace had broken off their relationship.

And Ace knew, _had _to know, that Deuce would never refuse him if he really, honestly decided that enough was enough.

“I want to kiss you, Deuce,” Ace murmured, and damn if that didn’t set Deuce’s blood ablaze in his veins, “but I can’t.”

Again, Deuce swallowed. “No, you can’t,” he agreed in a hushed voice, and despite himself and his ban on his love, he felt himself leaning in.

“This is bad,” Ace said so quietly he could hardly be heard, “so bad, Deuce. I can’t kiss you; it’s forbidden.”

Deuce groaned at Ace’s choice of words, noting with building tension within him how Ace angled his jaw ever so slightly, exactly in that same way that he used to do whenever he wanted Deuce to initiate a kiss.

“We’d be so angry with ourselves if we kissed.”

“Furious,” Ace agreed, “raging.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t. And imagine how mad we’d be if we ended up having sex right here in your bed.”

Deuce suddenly felt lightheaded. “Terrible,” he managed, although he felt like he was choking, “just awful. But what if—”

Lips crushed into his with such force that Deuce accidentally bit Ace, moaning into his mouth and pulling him in at the waist in a heartbeat. The feel of his heat against him again, Ace’s tongue slipping in without hesitation at the first chance he got, angling to deepen the kiss when Deuce sighed a shuddering moan against him – it was heaven, bliss, perfect, _sensational _bliss.

But they broke apart too soon, both gasping for breath, and Deuce was sure he was going to faint with relief. _Finally_, after months of their stupid breakup, their pointless ban, he had Ace as he had always belonged.

“Enough thinking,” Ace said after a second, pulling Deuce down again, “and kiss me again. I’ve missed you too much.”

They were idiots. Both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that'll do for now! Sorry for spamming people with 5 updates at once! I'll add the Shanks/Marco ficlets tomorrow to avoid further annoying everyone who is subscribed to me (again I'm super sorry;;;)


	6. Gen - Whitebeard, Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Kidnapping them was the only way I was going to get them here."

“This is an unusual move, even for you,” Marco commented, cocking a hip and looking up at his father. “Would you care to divulge why we now have twenty unconscious rookies taking up all the space in Infirmary A?”

Whitebeard rumbled a laugh, holding out his hand for his nurse to insert the cannula into his vein. His nurses had protested, as they always did, when he had ripped all of the IV drips out and headed off to deal with the mouthy brat himself. The mouthy brat who, even when faced with the likelihood of instant death at Whitebeard’s hand, had protected his crew and told them to leave without him.

“You know I’ve had my eye on that Fire Fist boy for a while, Marco,” Whitebeard said evenly, winking at his nurse when she frowned at him for being a terrible, disobedient patient, and really, who could blame her? Whitebeard didn’t make her job easy. “His crew are just as welcome here as he is.”

“I like how you neatly avoided the actual question,” Marco praised in a sarcastic, but not unkind, tone, “very nicely done. But you know that doesn’t work on me, Pops.” Whitebeard merely chuckled at Marco’s mild exasperation. “Why are there piles of _unconscious_ pirates on my examination tables, taking up the whole room? Was that entirely necessary?”

Whitebeard scratched at his chin with a massive forefinger, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. “Kidnapping them was the only way I was going to get them here,” he admitted, and Marco sighed. “That captain of theirs isn’t the type to be swayed or won over with nice words. He was very rude to me when I asked him to become my son.”

“Gosh, I can’t even begin to think why.”

Whitebeard chortled at Marco’s words. “We’ll take the whole lot in, not just Fire Fist,” he confirmed, and Marco’s grin dropped, instantly serious. “Separating a devout crew such as them from their captain is not the way we work, after all. If the papers are to be believed, they are all simply lost souls who have banded together under the care of the most bereft of the lot. They could all use a loving family.”

“Okay,” Marco sighed again, “fine, we’ll take in all of the strays. I do wish you’d stop doing this, though. We always take in more than we can accommodate; we’re going to need another ship at this rate.”

Whitebeard’s eyes twinkled with the grin that stretched his lips. “Can I count on you to be the first person they see on waking? You know I like how people trust you so easily, son. You’ll be a far more welcome face than this old mug.” Whitebeard began to laugh but stopped abruptly - the sounds of angry yells, something breaking, and the unmistakable _whoomph _of fire igniting issued from down the corridor towards them from Infirmary A.

Marco heaved a sigh that seemed to draw his entire soul out of him. “So which idiot didn’t cuff the human bonfire?”

“Ah,” Whitebeard said, looking uncomfortable, “that would be my fault. I asked the men not to cuff any of them— makes for bad first impressions, don’t you think?”

“Seriously, Pops…” They were already so far beyond salvaging any impressions the Spades could have of them that Marco was actually amused that Pops had even considered this.

Whitebeard made to rise from his chair immediately. “Not to worry,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll see to it that the boy doesn’t cause anymore—”

“No, you won’t,” his nurse ordered, shooting their captain with the most severe look Marco had ever seen on her pretty features. Whitebeard sat back down at once, looking sheepish. “You’re staying right here and behaving yourself for a change, Pops. Marco can handle that kid.”

Whitebeard nodded obediently, and Marco was convinced that if any of their enemies saw him right now, they would be amazed at how easily his Pops could be taken down by nothing more than a pretty face. 

“Marco,” Whitebeard said with something of a whimper, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Marco flashed him a grin. “Not at all.”


	7. Shanks/Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up."

He was cute like this. So cute, in fact, that Shanks almost couldn’t find it in himself to break away from him and leave him to grow cold in bed. The Red Force was bound to be preparing to leave the port by now, and if Benn’s threats were to be trusted then the crew would quite happily leave their captain where he was, held tight in the embrace of their rival’s first mate.

But this was the most vulnerable that Shanks ever saw Marco, where he was allowed to simply _look _at him and appreciate the man he had craved for his whole adult life. Where the furrow of a perpetual frown aimed at Shanks softened and the corners of his mouth were no longer down-turned in disapproval, instead giving way to a sight of total relaxation - something that Shanks wished he could awaken beside every morning, not just whenever their crews happened to be close to the same island.

With a glance at the clock on the wall, Shanks shuffled back down under the covers to slide into Marco’s body heat, curling his arm around Marco’s waist. He leaned in and, with a smile, pressed a gentle kiss to his enemy’s lips.

“Morning,” he whispered at Marco’s almost serene sigh, pecking another kiss to sleep-soft lips, "you sleep well?”

Marco didn’t reply, at least not properly, sighing something indistinct that didn’t sound like anything in any language Shanks had ever heard. He grinned as Marco mirrored him, flopping an arm of his own over Shanks to rest against his spine, and he took his chance again to place a kiss at the corner of Marco’s mouth.

“I need to head off now,” Shanks said gently, fingertips trailing little shapes to Marco’s back, eliciting a rolling shudder and the lightest of groans from the blond. “The men said we’re pushing off at first light.”

But Marco, for maybe the first time since they had started this game of dominance, this mutual understanding that they both sought and chased and _needed_, didn’t seem in any way ready to play ball. Marco snuggled in closer, tucking his chin in and nosing against Shanks’ collarbone, pressing a sloppy, sleepy kiss to it. Another tremor shivered up Marco’s spine at the tickle from those dancing fingers at his back, yet still he refused to wake up properly.

Ah, he didn’t want to do this. He _so _didn’t want to roll out of bed into the cold air and leave such a domestic scene. He had Marco how he always hoped he would wake to find him, and now he had to ruin it.

“Marco,” Shanks murmured into another soft, slow kiss, “we’ve become pretty close, wouldn’t you say? So how about it - are you ready to join my crew now or what?”

That did it.

Marco’s eyes flew open instantly, piercing blue and cold to the question that would never garner a favorable response. A lesser man would have quailed under that look; Shanks only shifted under the sheets with a swallowed groan, squeezing his thighs together.

“No?” Shanks smiled, goading. He leaned in, delivered a final kiss to hard-lined lips pressed together in irritation, and clambered out of the bed, shivering slightly as the air hit his bare body.

“At least think on my offer some more,” Shanks grinned as he pulled on his pants, not even trying to pretend that the sight of Marco sleepily attempting to retain some degree of anger in his expression didn’t fill him with something _soft_. It had taken so long for Marco to relax enough around him to allow himself to sleep, and even longer to _stay_ sleepy the next morning rather than snapping awake, alert and adrenalized.

“Shut up,” Marco slurred; it was a mark of how comfortable they had become, the way the first mate didn’t feel the need to be fully lucid around the Yonko anymore.

“I miss you already,” Shanks singsonged, blowing Marco a kiss as he tugged the hotel room door open.

“Hope a Sea King gets you.”

“Love you, too.”


	8. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Is it greedy of me to say I never want you to leave my arms?"

Deuce loves him. 

Everything about him.

He breathes life into the darkest corners of the saddest, most dismal of minds, and he draws out the flickers of hope and happiness that he knows with complete faith resides within each one of the people he meets. He fans those tiny sparks, he works them until they are confident and brilliant and nothing short of a roaring fire responding to his care and kindness. And, _oh,_ did they respond to him. Did they ever become better versions of the people that Ace found, transforming under his energy and good heart and breaking free from their shells to be reborn in his light.

Ace is perfect, both as he was when captain, and as he is now as commander.

Ace is Deuce’s entire life, his entire being.

And when he has Ace like this, soft and sleepy in his arms, hidden away in Ace’s room onboard the Moby Dick, Deuce cannot stop the waves, the _tsunamis_, of affection for the other man from drowning him. He doesn’t wish to, either. 

He thinks he likes Ace best like this, when he isn’t burdened by his past, by his titles of Fire Fist or divisional commander, or by the worries he carries during waking hours - ever-present, ever terrible. Ace, when he is on the brink of sleep, is calm, and he is happy, and if nothing else, Deuce always wishes for Ace to be happy.

Yet Deuce loves his worries and anxieties in ways that Ace cannot understand, because Deuce loves all that is Ace. Every single thought. Every single flaw. Every. Single. Thing.

He draws his arms around Ace tighter, pressing a kiss into his hair as Ace groans, burrowing his face into Deuce’s neck. He’s like a cat, Deuce thinks not for the first time, an enormous cuddly kitty who just needs to be pampered and adored.

And Deuce would happily lay down his own life to provide that for Ace.

“Ace,” Deuce murmurs, earning a content sigh of questioning from his ex-captain, “is it greedy of me to say I never want you to leave my arms?”

He feels rather than hears Ace laugh against his skin, shoulders quivering with the silent response.

“No,” Ace’s breath is hot on his collarbone, yet causes Deuce to shiver, “but it’s damn cheesy.”

Deuce smiles into Ace’s hair as he feels Ace shift against him, pressing a thigh between Deuce’s own to snuggle even closer.

“Comfy,” Ace says, voice thick with the promise of a deep sleep, “stay like this.”

Deuce wishes he could remain tangled with Ace under the thin sheet for the rest of his life, never having to be parted from the one person he has ever loved with every ounce of his existence. 

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _think_ that's it for my backlog, although I'm sure I'm missing at least one. I love prompts for little ficlets, so if you have any in mind, don't be shy and send 'em in on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/)!


	9. Marco/Ace, Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompts “You’re putting an awful lot of trust in them" + "wedding"

“Calm down,” Deuce scolded, tapping the back of Ace’s head with the hairbrush he had chosen as his weapon to tackle Ace’s wild mess of tangles, “if you keep fidgeting like that, I’m gonna pull your hair out.”

“I _can’t_,” Ace huffed, his leg refusing to keep still, bouncing on the ball of his foot as his nerves curled into a fist in his stomach, “I’m about to get _married_.” Ace huffed suddenly, a sharp exhale of a laugh as Deuce raked his hair off his face. “Me, married,” he said, disbelieving, wincing slightly as that brush returned to his scalp in its brutal attack. “If someone had told me I’d be doing this two years ago, I’d have asked if they’d been at Pops’ sake for too long.”

Deuce hummed in agreement, bending to look over Ace’s shoulder into the mirror he was sat in front of. He seemed satisfied with his handiwork as he nodded, rose, and set the brush down, freeing his hands to work a small amount of gel into that thick black hair.

“To smarten you up a bit,” Deuce answered Ace’s enquiring look up at him, “and to stop your hair blowing all over the place the second you go out on deck.”

Ace nodded, watching himself in the mirror. Izou’s old suit fit surprisingly well, considering that he was a little taller and not quite so broad in the shoulder as Ace. The white shirt under the dark gray jacket hugged a bit tighter than Ace was accustomed to, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really, other than keeping his cool and not breaking out into nervous giggles the second he saw Marco out on deck, dressed in a similar fashion and no doubt looking impeccable.

And then out of nowhere, Ace’s jitters spiked, tipping into something bordering onto fear.

“Hey, Deuce?” he asked quietly, watching his fingers twist in his lap, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Ace frowned at his fingers; he could feel his pulse pounding in his neck, heart frantic under Izou’s shirt. “Am I doing the right thing, marrying Marco?”

Deuce stopped at once, fingers stilling in Ace’s hair. Ace couldn’t see his expression from where he stood behind him, the mirror not big enough to see that high up from where he sat, but he guessed his best friend wore that frown he reserved only for when something confused him.

“Ace,” Deuce said calmly, crouching down next to him to look at him seriously, “that’s not my place to comment.”

“But just say it is,” Ace urged, “just say, for a moment, that you’re me and you’ve got Roger as a father, and you’re about to tie an innocent man to you for the rest of your lives. Would you go through with it? I’m condemning him to something he doesn’t deserve, aren’t I?”

Dark, soulful eyes searched troubled stormy gray, and Ace was left with the impression that Deuce was biting back something very blunt and not at all kind. But when he opened his mouth to reply, Ace was met with nothing but encouragement… in Deuce’s unusual, roundabout fashion, of course.

“He’s not an idiot,” Deuce pointed out fairly, “and he knows your past just as well as you do. Better, probably, considering he actually knew Roger. And he still wants to marry you. _He _asked _you_, remember? He asked you, knowing full well you’re Roger’s son. I’m willing to bet it didn’t even cross his mind when he popped the question. He doesn’t care. No one in this crew cares. And besides,” Deuce added, standing with a sigh, “he’s hardly what anyone would class as _innocent_, is he?”

Ace shot Deuce a wry smile over his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do,” Deuce said, brushing fallen strands of hair off Ace’s shoulders, “and I understand where you’re coming from. You’re putting an awful lot of trust into someone after a lifetime of keeping yourself guarded. It’s natural to worry. But don’t.”

_Easier said than done._

Ace stood as well with a tap to his shoulder, turning to face Deuce. His cheeks felt flushed all of a sudden, the reality of the situation hitting him full on and leaving him reeling. He was getting _married_. Right now. All they had to do was wait for Vista to come and get them, and he’d be heading out to meet Marco, who was preparing with Thatch as his best man, to come to stand before Whitebeard.

Fists balled so tight his knuckles turned white, Ace hung his head and muttered, “shit, I’m scared, Deuce. What if he’s changed his mind and he’s not there? What do I do then?”

Deuce shrugged. “Get really drunk, eat all the food, and dance with me all night instead.” Ace gave him a weak punch to the chest, prompting a laugh of, “okay, sorry, insensitive, I know.” Deuce clasped Ace by his shoulders, gripped him tight, and said seriously, “he’s out there. He’s just as nervous as you are. But I bet he can’t _wait_. Neither can you. You’re going to become the most terrifying couple in the entire world, you’ll see.”

A knock at the door made them both jump violently, heads whipping round to see Vista creaking the door open.

“Ready?” Vista asked excitedly. “Marco’s just been called by Jozu, so it’s your turn now.” He pulled an enormous purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his watering eyes. “I’ve never seen him look so excited. You’re going to make a _wonderful_ husband, Ace.”

With a great, shuddering sigh and a slap of encouragement to his back, Ace followed Vista out of his bedroom to a booming chorus of the wedding march played by the crew’s musicians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who reads my other stuff, a quick update!
> 
> Arrhythmia chapter 7 is sitting at 8500 words long and has another 2-3000 to go, probably. I'm hoping to get it out this weekend!  
The One Word Prompt series hasn't been forgotten! I've just been favoring writing Arrhythmia and these Tumblr prompts for the last couple of weeks. I have one chapter on the go, and plan on mashing out some chapters for that series once Arrhythmia's chapter 7 is posted.  
I haven't touched How To Save A Life since the last chapter was posted;;; but it certainly isn't forgotten. I just need to do some research for it before I dive back in.


	10. Shanks/Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've marked the work as completed because each chapter is a complete work - there are definitely more chapters coming in the future!

“Red-Hair, wait.”

Those words, so simple, stopped such a powerful man in his tracks instantly. Shanks looked back over his shoulder just as he was about to board the Red Force, caught between wondering what there could possibly be left to discuss with the new captain of Whitebeard’s crew and thankful that Marco had called out to him. With a nod to his crew, they continued to board without him, leaving Shanks free to speak captain to captain.

_Captain_. Marco’s eyes held no pride in being given that title, deriving nothing positive from the role foisted onto him under circumstances he had never wished to entertain thinking about. He looked tired, Shanks thought not for the first time, tired like he was done with the world, done with existing, and done with always being the one to survive no matter what.

Behind Marco the Whitebeard crew – or the remains of them that had made it through the war, at least – began to disperse, setting down the hill that sloped gently up to Edward Newgate and Portgas D. Ace’s final resting places, father and son together, peaceful, for the rest of time. Their ships were waiting on the other side, Shanks having chosen to keep a respectful distance from the remainders of the fleet when they docked.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Shanks said easily, turning to face the blond. “Can I interest you in a night of good booze and even better conversation? I promise I won’t give you my usual line.”

That would be heartless and disrespectful beyond measure; Shanks had taken pleasure in annoying Marco throughout the years (just for acknowledgement, to get him to _look_, for _anything_ at all), sure, but there were lines that no one had any right to cross.

Yet he knew before he’d even finished his sentence that the offer would be politely turned down, and honestly, he couldn’t blame Marco. Whitebeard had been Marco’s entire focus and drive, his foundation, his single reason for being the man he was today. Ace had been his good friend, someone that Marco had taught and cared for, a brother in soul and a valued part of his life. He had lost near enough everything in a blink of an eye, and no amount of rum or chatting was ever going to fix that.

Especially not while in the company of a man whom Marco had disliked for his whole adult life.

“No, but thanks for the offer,” Marco said. He appeared more fragile, somehow, Shanks couldn’t help but notice, as if he were more human and humbler than he had been before the war. Like he could actually now shatter rather than absorb anything that life threw at him. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did at Marineford.”

Shanks eyed him carefully; there was no mistaking how defeated he sounded, even compared to those scant few minutes ago up at the graves. “Marco,” Shanks said quietly, taking a step closer to avoid being overheard – even though Marco’s crew weren’t paying them any attention, one of the commanders was bound to stop and see why their captain was lagging behind at some point, “you’ve already thanked me enough. I respected Whitebeard tremendously. I respect you and your men. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

Marco looked away, gaze dropping to the floor momentarily before blinking back up in a flash of cobalt blue.

To Shanks’ enormous surprise and intense elation, Marco ducked his head to press a kiss to Shanks’ lips. He kissed back without a second thought, reaching up to cup Marco’s face and hold him in place lest he try to break the contact too soon. After over twenty years of longing, of waiting and chasing and antagonizing for a rise, he had Marco exactly as he had wanted him yet in the least desirable circumstances he could ever imagine.

Someone yelped in pain behind Marco, the sounds of a man walking straight into his crewmate’s back as he gawped at the sight of his new captain locked with the Yonko. What a sight it must be for them, those who happened to look over at that moment – it was no secret that if Shanks was on fire, Marco wouldn’t even think of so much as spitting on him to try to put it out. The affection had always been very much a one-way, unrequited deal, and yet…

The moment was over, the spell undone, and Marco broke the kiss as another of his crew behind him tripped over his own feet at the completely out of place sight.

How strange – Shanks couldn’t seem to open his eyes. They remained closed for several long, blissful seconds, giving him a chance to fully absorb what had just happened to him. When they fluttered open at last he was honestly glad to find himself looking into Marco’s face, the man having not moved and left while given the chance to. There was no anger in his eyes, no trace of the usual contempt he would always shoot at Shanks whenever they met, distrustful and forever humiliated by the captain’s need to yell his affections in the form of offers to join him.

“Thank you, Shanks,” Marco whispered, “and I’m sorry.”

And he turned on his heel, leaving Shanks foolishly staring after him as Marco heaved his fallen crewmate to his feet again, ignoring the man’s stammered question of _what the hell did I just witness?_

Marco had called him by his name. Marco had kissed him.

Shanks grinned as he turned back to his ship, touching his lips as his men called for him to hurry up.

He sure hoped there was more of that to come in the future.


	11. Gen - Ace, Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "'if you pass out, I’m not going to catch you', with Ace injured and Deuce being his sassy self at first but then realizes it’s serious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - this involves blood, pain, and injury, none of which are in any way explicit, gory, or horrifying. This came out softer than I had imagined, but it’s so hard imagining Ace actually getting injured in ways that aren’t completely ridiculous...

“If you pass out, I’m not going to catch you.”

The words catch Ace off guard completely. He’s trying so hard to suppress the tremors, bite back and swallow down the moans of pain that catch and climb up his throat, the injury deep and far more severe than he has led his first mate to believe. In disbelief of his own ability to _lie_ so coolly he has somehow managed to convince Deuce that it is the sight of blood on his hands that has him ashen-faced and weak, and not the seastone that is buried deep in his tricep.

“Like I’d pass out from the sight of a little blood.” Even his voice is shaky – thin and fragile, like his own mortality in that moment, “give me some credit, dude.”

Stupid, that’s what he is. Stupid and cocky and possibly just a touch too proud. Too arrogant to admit he had made a mistake, that he had gone against Deuce’s hastily snapped suggestion that he _stayed put_ and run after the marine on his own.

“It’s not like you to be this careless,” Deuce states as he cleans Ace’s hands, washing away the evidence of a job gone wrong. “I hope whatever nonsense you were thinking is out of your system and you’re prepared to calm the fuck down now.” His arm is gently raised to mop at his elbow, and all at once Ace knows he should have snatched his hands away when he had the chance. Deuce’s eyes narrow in that tell-tale way that speaks of _knowing_, that Ace has seen a thousand times by now with each instance his carefully crafted yet well-intended deceit has been picked apart by a man who _knows him_. A strange concept outside of Luffy; an even stranger concept to find himself comfortable with.

“He only grazed my arm.” He has to look away when Deuce raises his gaze from elbow to eyes; it’s too much, he knows he’ll give himself away in an instant. “It’s just a graze, I can slap a band-aid on it no problem,” he repeats uselessly, because _who could ever fool a doctor? _Failed med student or not, Deuce knows the basics. And the intermediate. And the advanced. And _Ace_. “Stop looking at me like that,” he finishes with a definite edge of a pout, “I’m fine.”

Steady fingers reach to slip under his shirt at his collarbone, ridding him of the bloodied pale yellow that he will probably have to replace now. Deuce is going to find the injury, discover the bullet that has ripped through soft tissue and lodged in muscle, rendering his captain perfectly wretched and quite as mortal as he.

Air is sucked through clenched teeth; not from him, but from Deuce. Ace is too far gone with trying to maintain lucidity to pay much attention to the flash of pain wrung from the wound as Deuce guides his arm to turn, examining. The loss of his fire is cutting so deep he feels sick, sick in ways that stretch beyond the nausea of being shot, and he fights to hold onto reality because of it.

“You call this _fine?” _is Deuce’s downright furious response, shoving a hand through his sodden pale hair at the sight of the injury, composure cast aside at once. “This isn’t a graze; this is serious. That bullet’s seastone, right? The marine was yelling that it was.”

But they don’t have the tools to perform an extraction; not here, on the floor of a half-collapsed building in the rain, sheltering from the marines who will surely spot his droplets of blood leading to their hiding place before the rain can wash them away.

“Does it have to be now?” Ace tries, because if he thinks he’s in pain now, he’ll have a whole new world of agony opened up to him the moment Deuce attempts to dig the bullet out without the aid of local anesthetic and delicate surgical tools. “Do you have to take it out right now? Won’t it get infected?”

It is then that Ace registers that Deuce is shaking as well. The decision isn’t verbalised, the words not coming as Deuce opens his mouth only to close it again. He can’t say what he thinks, eyes flicking between the bloody wound and Ace’s poorly masked expression of pain that throbs through his arm.

“It hasn’t hit the artery,” even Deuce’s voice shakes when he finally finds it, quiet and steeped in a torment of the likes Ace doesn’t have the capacity to fully fathom right now, “or if it has, then it’s stopping the blood flow enough to stop you from—” he swallows thick, and Ace suddenly understands his snap from cool and annoyed to frightened and unsure in his own abilities. Deuce’s care is ill-placed, Ace thinks dimly not for the first time – whether Ace lives and survives or dies in his arms right this second shouldn’t matter, and yet Deuce looks like he’s on the verge of vomiting with how scared he suddenly is.

And yet despite what he thinks of himself, Deuce’s comfort is paramount. He _matters _in ways that Ace never will, his knowledge and abilities ones that will be sought after in later years once his confidence is nurtured, his skills honed. But thanks to Roger, Ace knows that _his_ survival, at least, will never be something that is seen as imperative to the wider world.

But when he is with Deuce like this, brain frantically rifling through his vocabulary in his search for reassurance for his first mate, his best and only friend, Ace can almost convince himself that if he _were_ to perish, then perhaps there would be one person other than Luffy whose world would turn instantly dark.

“Which artery?” Ace asks, the beginnings of a headache setting in now, ears ringing all of a sudden. Deuce doesn’t answer, eyes wide and distressed, so very obviously losing his grip on himself and moments away from doing the unthinkable for a field doctor and _panicking_. “C’mon Deuce, get it together. Which artery?” This is the best way to soothe him, to stop the downward spiral, knowing him by now as if they were two halves of the same mind and soul.

Deuce swallows again, trembling fingers lifting the sodden rag he used to clean Ace’s hands and arm to dab around the wound. “T-The brachial artery,” he manages; Ace nods to encourage him, head swimming, and Deuce continues, “if I try to remove it now you’ll get your power back and f-feel better in that sense, but it’ll leave you open to infection and a lot of pain.” No kidding. “I’d rather get you back to the ship and do it there.”

A sound plan, Ace thinks, despite how much he wants it out right now. He can’t explain it, this dragging, gnawing sense of absolute loss that comes with having his fire shut out, like a limb yanked free while the brain still believes it to be there and functional.

His arm is bandaged as best as Deuce can manage with what little they have on them, his bag pulled open and supplies littering their immediate surroundings in his haste to find anything dry and clean to use. The long coat is shrugged off and slipped around Ace’s shoulders, uninjured arm coaxed into a sleeve, and he is immeasurably grateful for it – he feels colder than he can ever remember being without his fruit, realising this with a suddenness that startles.

“I’m sorry,” Deuce blurts out of nowhere as he wraps an arm around Ace’s waist and pulls his good arm around his shoulders, “I’m so sorry for not noticing straight away. Feel free to pass out any time you need to.”

Ah, it hurts to laugh – his breath seizes in his chest as he’s hauled to his feet, weak-kneed and shaking all over. He’s still not used to this, this sense of being able to rely on someone so completely, being the one to be taken care of and looked after for a change. It doesn’t come natural to Ace to _not _be the caregiver; it leaves him feeling inadequate, like he isn’t _doing enough_ when _he _should be the one to protect and defend.

But if it is with Deuce, perhaps he can learn to allow vulnerability here and there.

“You’re doing great,” Ace consoles, barely more than a whisper of a breath leaving him, “I trust you, Deuce.”

And he is certain that he spots more than just rain trickling down Deuce’s cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	12. Gen - Thatch, Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "“I told you that would pop your stitches! Did you listen? No!” Maybe with Marco saying it to Thatch?"

Thatch liked to think that he was a good chef. Better than good, actually, if he may say so himself. One of the best in the world, certainly. The best in the crew, definitely.

Clumsy? No. Not him. Never. He was careful, precise, and learned in the fine art of culinary prowess. He could skin and slice a carrot in 5 seconds flat. Blanch as easily as breathing. Sculpt and mould all manner of cakes and pastries into inventive works of mastery… only for them to be munched through immediately by the crew.

So no, Thatch was _not _careless, inept, or a blundering fool, as Marco called him. He _never _injured himself during cooking or preparation. Never. This time was just an outlier. Yes, that was it. Everything had outliers, as Marco so happily informed him whenever something unexpected happened in the infirmaries, and Thatch and his mishaps were no exception.

So really, if he stopped to think about it – which was precisely what he was doing – Marco was wrong, and Thatch was right.

He hadn’t _meant _to drop the knife, nor try and snatch it mid-fall by the blade to prevent it from impaling and severing his toes from his foot. It had been instinctual; Marco had to understand that much, at least.

No, what was _really _getting to Thatch more than Marco bitching at him far more than he had any right to was the way he refused to heal the deep cut running across Thatch’s palm. While Marco insisted it was so that he could use this opportunity to teach his new student – that first mate of Ace’s who, once just as feral as his captain, now looked up to Marco like an adoring puppy – Thatch knew full well that this was just spite on Marco’s end.

Well, he’d get him back one day. Somehow. Like, maybe he’d lace his dinner with enough chili powder to make him breathe fire like Ace did for party tricks. Yeah, that was a good one.

So Thatch had suffered the irritation and almighty hindrance to his job as head chef by having to sit through Deuce’s neatly tied stitches with the procedure, as Marco called it, taking for-fucking-ever and filled with constant reassurance that no, Thatch wasn’t sighing because he was in pain, Thatch was sighing because he was an impatient asshole.

Nine of them. Right there in his palm, preventing him from doing anything useful.

So, fuck it, Thatch had thought. Fuck Marco and his love of teaching Thatch a lesson. Fuck Deuce and his bright blue stitches. And fuck Ace just because fuck Ace; he was bound to do something eventually that required a sound fuckening to be issued.

… Or so had been his set resolve, his confident train of thought, right up until the Moby had been boarded by today’s crew of pirates who were laughably in over their heads. With an almost bored wave of his hand and a sigh that had spoken leagues of his fatigue, Whitebeard had commanded that whoever got them gone the quickest would be tonight’s center of celebrations.

And Thatch liked attention. A lot.

So Thatch had pulled his sword from his hip and charged.

And popped four of his lovingly tied stitches in the process of wildly swinging his weapon.

It had been impressive, his quick change of tactics, if he did say so himself. Blinding a pirate with his own blood wasn’t something that Thatch had done before, and yet with a stroke of genius he had dropped his sword upon feeling that gut churning _pop_ in his palm, lunged forward, and planted his bloodied palm into the eyes of his screaming target.

The payoff had been dear, though, with Marco dragging him away the moment the last of that invading crew had been booted over the railing. He had shut themselves away in the office that he shared with the other doctors off the side of the infirmaries, gesturing to the couch that often doubled up as a bed for whoever was on the night-shift.

And Thatch had received an earful of exasperation.

“I told you that any form of gripping or excessive use of your hand would lead to popping your stitches,” Marco snapped, cleaning up the dried blood in Thatch’s palm none too gently. “But did you listen? No! No, because why bother listening to the doctor? Not like he knows what he’s talking about.”

Thatch grunted in response, more from the sting than anything else. “You didn’t tell me that,” he corrected, being deliberately obtuse, “your favorite prodigy did. Oh,” his expression cleared as realisation dawned, “did you teach him that line he spouted at me? I thought it sounded recited. Have you been filling his head with your best doctory phrases? You gotta let the newbies learn on their own, beloved brother, let them find their own ways of scolding their annoying patients.”

“_You’re _the annoying patient in this scenario, don’t forget,” Marco grumbled.

Thatch flashed him a grin that quickly dissolved into a grimace; Marco was bending his palm open, examining the extent of damage properly. “You ready to just heal this like a good birdy and let me get back to being useful in the kitchen? I’m bored of being left to just stirring the pots, y’know. I wanna get some chopping action in.”

Marco shot him a despairing look. “You won’t learn to be more careful if I don’t teach you the hard way.”

“Hang on.” Comprehension bloomed across Thatch’s face. “Is this all just your way of showing you care? It’s not spite? You’re _worried _about me?”

If they had been any younger, Thatch was sure that Marco would have spluttered indignantly. Instead he only raised his hand to Thatch’s lined forehead and gave it a sound flick, earning a yelp of pain.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Thatch said cheerfully, massaging the pink spot in the middle of his forehead, “you’re worried about my perceived carelessness, aren’t you?”

“Knowing when to stop is a great skill to have, Thatch.”

“Okay. But I _am _right.” Thatch snickered at Marco’s annoyed look. “So now that we’ve established that you love me so very dearly and that I can be a bit careless… maybe… perhaps… can we say we’ve learned from this experience and just get on with the blue magic healing? I really don’t want to sit through another hour of having stitches tied. I don’t think I have that kind of patience left in me, dude.”

And to his delight, Marco conceded. After locating a pair of surgical scissors with the help of one of the nurses he snipped through the remaining stitches and healed the cut in seconds, blue flames dancing and curling over Thatch’s palm as it mended.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Thatch grinned. “I promise I’ll be good from now on,” he added when Marco looked murderous, “please don’t fantasize about throwing me overboard, there’s a good bird.”


	13. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the tumblr prompt "keep smiling at me like that for acedeuce?"

Silence hung thick, the summer night air tangy with the scent of the plums the crew had procured (and then devoured) from port earlier in the day.

The crew, asleep, snoring from the bowels of the ship audible even up on deck—

—where they lay together, heads pillowed atop their folded arms, less than a foot in distance between them yet millennia it may have been for how far away Deuce felt.

Until, that was, the moment he smiled.

Sincere and brilliant, his eyes narrowing to the pull of lips over white teeth, a breath of a laugh escaping him to join Ace’s in the void that both wished to fill. Something castaway that Ace had said; something that he had been sure would not garner such a favourable response.

Something wildly insignificant that lit up his first mate more exceptionally _vibrantly_ than his own flames could ever color himself.

Ace instantly felt like he had taken a swift kick to the gut, rendering him breathless.

In the best, most wonderful way conceivable.

“Keep smiling at me like that,” he encouraged, all but crooning his desire to his _desired_, taking no steps to quell the heat that rapidly built to warm the air around them further. “You’re so beautiful when you smile.”

But that crescent moon of pure joy faltered under his request, the toxic claws of a stunted self-confidence prickling tight into the light of Deuce’s gaze.

“You are,” Ace breathed, _confessed_ with the utmost sincerity that rolled his shoulders forward to bring them closer; so dangerously _close_ that he could count every one of those astonishingly long lashes that fluttered like the wings of a trapped butterfly to Deuce’s flushed skin. “You _glow_ when you smile.”

He glowed with his blush. Gaze dropping to rest heavy around Ace’s neck with his beads, Deuce cleared his throat by way of insufficient reply.

“Do it again,” Ace whispered, aching to touch yet knowing to do so would be to shatter what was already so delicately spun; an intricate web of fine glass interlaced with ice that his presence persevered to melt entirely. A heart so fragile that to handle it with anything but the most tender of touches would see it splinter and fracture into irreparability.

His first mate – _his_ first mate, let it never be forgotten – the man with the hard exterior; the softest of centers below a thin shell created only to guard.

And Deuce, in all his devoted eagerness to please where Ace would not normally be indulged, submitted.

And _shone_.

As dazzling as moonlight; as fine as silken sand slipping through callous-roughened fingers.

Reflecting Ace in deep pools of molten chocolate, framed by pale strands of hair that tickled at his face when they fell to drift lazily against his nose.

“Here.” His lips, usually burning hot as the rest of him, felt icy as he spoke, reaching to caress those strands back behind Deuce’s ear. “All better.”

Deuce’s eyes drifted shut, as if by automatic reaction, to the gentle brush of fingers along his face, his ears, and _beamed_.

_Too much._

Terrifyingly – suddenly – it was too much to _not _act.

Heat of the type that he had never before experienced _swelled _in Ace’s chest at that first tentative, unbearably soft brush of lips to lips, leaving him shaking at his core. Feather-light. Just enough to cause Deuce’s breath to hitch, his chest to expand with the deep breath he pulled directly from Ace’s lungs.

Gossamer-fine slivers of glass cracked under the strain of doubt – yet the raging inferno that engulfed all melted it down to reform, to be spun anew into something stronger, more brilliant than ever, crafted and melded to Ace’s artistry—

And Deuce leaned in to meet him, lips tender to Ace’s, cautious into this new foray yet shivering with that sensual, delectable undercurrent of a man holding back on everything he had ever wanted.

Ace guided him through it, lounging in how Deuce’s eyes refused to open under the spell of the kiss, his almost silent _gasp _for more when guided to part his lips, allowing for them to slot together like long-lost pieces of an impossible puzzle.

He really, truly was beautiful when he smiled like that.


	14. Gen - Thatch, Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "and now I imagine "My God, you're so cute!" with Thatch, like, pinching Ace's cheeks or something like that after one of his first smiles, just pure brotherly love ♡"

It had taken time to get close to him – weeks, in fact, of Thatch’s constant, gentle reassurance and the occasional reality check that _no, lad, we aren’t about to try and poison you. See? I’m eating the food I’m about to feed you. No, I’m not resistant to poison; you’re thinking of Marco, the one who’s babysitting your first mate over there._

Weeks into caring for Ace – weeks into following him around like a loud, cheerful shadow, ever-present and quick to chortle at his constant, humiliating failures.

_Told you so,_ he had said happily after Ace’s 46th attempt at Whitebeard’s life, holding out a knife pinched between forefinger and thumb, handle-first offered to Ace to take with a sullen glare, _attacking head-on really isn’t the way to beat Pops_. Those poor bell peppers never knew what hit them the moment Ace vented his frustrations on them, slicing them in furious record time to Thatch’s gleeful astonishment.

_Well that’s not gonna work_, was snorted at Ace after attempt number 63 which saw Ace flung so far out to sea that a rowboat had to be cut by the ropes to land on the waves below, both Marco and Namur unhelpfully away at the time and thus unavailable for plucking their drowning guest out of the ocean.

_Maybe try admitting defeat now_, Thatch advised following the 80th attempt. But no; Ace refused to give in, although the longer Thatch coddled and pestered and followed and smothered the boy with love and affection, the more half-hearted the attempts on Whitebeard’s life seemed to become. They certainly stopped carrying that snarling, feral rage that had gone hand in hand with attempts one through to 50-ish, at least, and had now began to resemble something more like a yappy dog snapping at the heels of a human who dared venture too near.

He was a nice lad, though, Thatch found himself admitting one particular night over a hand of cards. A nice lad with a whole load of demons hidden away under his cute freckles, threatening to burst free whenever Thatch probed too hard (yet not hard enough). Ace, of course, did not partake in the night’s shenanigans, choosing instead to sit away from the groups of singing drunks to huddle with his lynx, Kotatsu, who had made himself comfortable in his lap. That cat was entirely too big, Thatch had privately thought since the moment he had first been mauled by Kotatsu for the fish he had been filleting – but no matter; he made Ace happy.

Well, that simply wouldn’t do. Not this late in the game, Thatch decided as he watched Ace bury his face into Kotatsu’s back. No – Ace would participate and he would be _happy_, dammit, with the Whitebeard crew. With a heaved sigh and a grunt, he was on his feet and ambling over to his young charge, tankard in hand and a peace offering of a bottle of dark rum that he knew the boy to favor, oddly enough.

“Here!” Thatch said merrily, practically thrusting the bottle into Ace’s face when it was raised to identify his attacker, “just for you! Never say I don’t treat you right, my guy, ‘cause ol’ Thatchie here’s been keepin’ that bottle safe from the others all night! Weird how you like an old man’s drink when you’re so—” he sighed affectionately, ruffling Ace’s thick dark hair wildly to a splutter of protest. “You make me wish I’d had kids – did you know that?”

When he managed to beat Thatch’s hand away and looked up at him with eyes that seemed to _shine_, for one wild, heart-stopping moment, Ace honestly looked like he was going to say that he, too, wished that he had been born to Thatch instead of whoever his father had been.

And Ace—

Ace _smiled_.

His first smile on board the Moby Dick. Unguarded and natural; sincerely flattered yet disbelieving (while not _wanting _to be – Thatch could see that little hint trying to peek free), finally breaking down at the precise moment that Thatch actually stopped _trying_ to get under his armor.

“Oh?”

His cheeks were seized without thought, pinched tight between calloused pads and held steady under Thatch’s own delighted beam.

_“Oh?”_ Thatch repeated, _thrilled_ with what he had seen – the smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, but that didn’t _matter _because it had _existed _for one brilliant moment, which meant it could be sparked into life again. “Oh my god, you’re _so _cute! You’re _really _cute when you smile!” Ace struggled in his grip, although it was certainly not a genuine attempt at breaking free, Thatch could tell that much, at least. “Wow, your whole face just lights up, did you know that? Did you? Who’da thought that _you _would be a cutie! Oi, Vista!” Ah, and now Ace struggled for real as the bigger man strolled over, wine bottle clutched like a precious child to his chest. “You gotta see this – c’mon Ace, smile for Vista—”

“Fuck you,” Ace snarled, fighting to free himself; his cheeks were almost luminous under his freckles, the color spreading right up to the tips of his ears, as he shoved the heel of a palm into Thatch’s chin to keep him at bay, “I’m not gonna smile on demand. I just slipped up.”

“He’s _adorable_ when he smiles,” Thatch informed Vista over the shriek of indignation, “wait there while I tickle him.”

“Don’t you _dare!”_


	15. Marco/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "My god you're so cute acemarco? I think it would be really nice if it was ace telling marco that."
> 
> So this is written as part of the [Arrhythmia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420813)-verse, but can be read as stand-alone too! Marco is a cardiologist, and Ace works within the department.

“Oh my _god_.”

A snort. A sigh. Another snort.

“What?” Ace asked brightly, practically bouncing over to where Marco sat at his desk surrounded by medical reports detailing results of all sorts of different diagnostic tests. “What’d you find? A patient with a funny name?”

With another sigh that shivered into a small laugh, Marco looped an arm around Ace’s hips and pulled him in close to press into his side.

“I have found,” Marco said so impressively that Ace almost wondered if he was about to announce the cure for cancer, “_the _funniest typo. _Ever_.”

“Really?” Curiosity piqued and extremely interested in what could make the cardiologist _giggle _like that, Ace peered down at the topmost report that Marco had dropped back onto the pile. It looked like a load of medical jargon to him, just like all of the others, and Ace couldn’t see the significance at all. “And, uh, where exactly is this hilarious typo? And what’s this test even for?”

“This,” again with the grand, dramatic tone; again with the way that Marco’s blatant enthusiasm for his work made Ace’s skin prickle pleasantly, his heart beat a little faster, “is an SSEP test. This patient’s had just about every test under the sun for all kinds of things. This one is looking for the cause of peripheral neuropathy in the feet – tingling, in this patient’s case,” Marco added at Ace’s frown, giving him a fond squeeze around his hips, “pins and needles.”

“I know what peripheral neuropathy is,” Ace said, frown breaking into a gentle smile to follow the gentle, rhythmic pace with which he trailed his fingers up and down Marco’s spine, “what I don’t get is why _you _are looking at _that_. That’s nothing to do with the heart.”

“It’s all part of a bigger picture,” Marco said shrewdly, picking up the report again, “you never know what gems you’ll find buried in the seemingly unrelated tests and notes. Like this, for example,” he illustrated by giving the page a little shake, “read the first sentence of the ‘summary’ paragraph.”

Trying with all his might not to let on that he thought the chances of him discovering anything remotely funny in the dull clinical findings of the neurophysiology department were zero to none, Ace bent forward a little to get a better look. “No abnormalities found along the common perineal nerve or the—” Ace stopped abruptly, staring at the sentence. “Wait,” he said, tone flat and deadpan and at complete odds with Marco’s wide, expectant grin that was beaming up at him, “perineal? Isn’t that between your—”

“It is,” ah, Marco was on the verge of laughing again, “the perineum. See? They’re testing the—” he snorted and clapped his hand to his mouth, dropping the paper back onto the desk, “sorry—they’re testing the legs, right? So this should read _peroneal_, not _perineal_. They’re referring to the peroneal nerve, not the patient’s—”

With difficulty, apparently, Marco stopped himself from laughing outright, drawing a sharp, deep breath in and holding it for longer than necessary.

Okay, yes, it was a funny typo, Ace could happily admit. But to make _Marco_ react like _this?_

“Oh my god,” Ace found himself laughing as well, pulling Marco into his side with a squeeze around his shoulders, “you are _so _cute. Such a nerd, too.”

Marco seemed to freeze under Ace’s hold, clearly absorbing the declaration and deciding what in the world to do with that information. Eventually, he settled on, “no, I’m not.”

“You are,” Ace grinned, and when Marco looked up at him, he took his chance to bend and kiss those plush, parted lips. “No one else in the _world _would find that even half as funny as you do.”

“That is _not _true,” Marco defended himself immediately, although he didn’t look even remotely offended – in fact, his cheeks were tinged with the loveliest, most endearing shade of pink that Ace could ever recall seeing, “Ed would _howl _if he saw this.”

True enough, Ace conceded – Dr. Thatch probably _would _find something like that hysterical. However—

“His poor attempt at hiding his laughter wouldn’t be cute, though,” Ace practically purred, rearranging himself to nestle between Marco’s thighs when the older man turned in his chair to face him properly, “he’d probably spray his food ten feet forward and then honk like a seal at it.” Linking his fingers behind Marco’s neck and lowering his voice seductively without warning, Ace added, “I like seeing your cute side, Marco. It suits you far better than being a stuffy, boring _physician_.”

“I can’t make a living out of being cute, though,” Marco sighed in fake defeat, drawing Ace in by the hips to press flush to his body. There was no way that Marco couldn’t _feel_ Ace’s heart pounding when he laid his cheek to Ace’s chest, encircling his arms around his waist to keep him close.

“No harm in at least _trying_,” Ace grinned down at the top of Marco’s head, stroking through his fair hair, “I’d hire you.”

He felt rather than heard Marco laugh against him; felt the warmth of his cheek nuzzle into him through his work shirt.

“Thanks, Ace.”


	16. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "I'm pretty certain that you are the only thing that fills my head these days." For DeuceAce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late posting this haha;; completely forgot to add it here.

“D’you ever think about the future?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, favoring watching the stars overhead instead as he puzzled the question. Chancing a glance up at Ace’s back from where he sat beside him, Deuce adjusted his hands behind his head with a comfortable sigh.

“Of course I do,” he said eventually, the sky above him spanning on forever in its endless enormity, still and peaceful and crystal clear in its remarkable lack of clouds. Summer had rolled around far too quickly, seeing their tiny crew swell a further 15 humans and one very affectionate lynx since they had picked up Mihar and Skull in mid-February. When every day that passed drew their ship that little bit closer to the promise of Paradise, and with it the threat of Ace becoming even more reckless and heedless, how could Deuce _not _think of the future? “Why? Something you wanna talk about?”

The image that Ace painted gave away the upcoming announcement that he had been thinking too much again, getting trapped in his mind before deciding to siphon off his anxiety to Deuce to tackle and calm. Hugging his knees in closer to his chest, Ace’s grey irises flashed under the moonlight as his gaze flickered down to his first mate.

“Yeah,” he said, yet Deuce could hear the distinct lack of conviction in his voice, “it’s going to sound weird, though.”

Nothing that Ace ever said sounded weird anymore. Not to Deuce, at least. There were no surprises left, he was reasonably sure by now, having cracked Ace’s code long ago and with startling ease thanks to knowing his secret. It all came back to Roger – it all came back to not feeling that he should be allowed to live. Every time.

“It won’t,” Deuce promised, the weight of affection for his captain resting to press on his throat when Ace turned his face to lay a cheek on his knees, pinning Deuce with that silvery gaze around his tattooed bicep, “whatever’s bothering you, its not gonna sound weird.”

But it sure was unexpected, and it caught Deuce off guard so completely that he actually choked – where he had been expecting the usual pickings of self-doubt, of worry, of misery kept secret from the others finally free to lay bare for him alone, Ace instead came out with—

“When you imagine yourself ten years from now, do you see a family around you? Kids? Am—” he swallowed and cleared his throat, “are you still a pirate? Or have you gone back to your home town?”

Deuce snorted before he could stop himself, grinning at Ace’s continual stare. Ah, this was a new one.

“I’m never going back there,” he said, happy to find that the bite of anger that he felt towards his family didn’t emerge – it barely ever did these days, now that he was free and so _happy_, “so don’t worry about that.” When Ace’s only response was to continue watching him closely, as if by doing so he could catch the exact moment Deuce began to spin him a lie (as if Deuce ever _could _to him), he sat up with a heavy sigh, smoothing his hair down where it had fanned out on the deck. “You wanna know what I see?” He clarified, leaning close to Ace and dropping his voice; Ace nodded, visibly brightening. “I don’t see a family. I don’t see kids, a job, or any form of lifestyle. I don’t even see a ship. I don’t care what I’m doing. It’s not important.”

“There must be _something_,” Ace’s skepticism bled through the light tone he attempted to adopt, eyebrows arching just a little, “you must have something that you want in your life, otherwise what’s the point?”

“I do.” And Ace already knew the answer. It was why he had prompted him. It was his way – and Deuce knew it only too well, despite this being a new way of drawing the desired response from him – of discreetly asking for affection. Of having his own life affirmed, of finding the drive to continue to tomorrow in someone else if it wasn’t present within. And that was perfectly okay with Deuce; he could provide that much, at least, if nothing else. “When I think of my future,” Deuce said gently, as open as Ace was closed in his easy recline onto his palms splayed behind his back, tilting his head yet closer to Ace, “I only see you. I don’t care about the other details, as long as we’re together. You may try your best not to accept it, but you’re the only person that fills my head these days. You’re the only future I’ll ever want.”

Ace watched him silently for several tense, strained seconds, each heavy beat of Deuce’s heart thrumming through him so loudly that he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Ace could hear it.

“You mean it,” Ace finally said, awed and just a touch shocked. Deuce nodded, and suddenly Ace’s face split into an uncertain smile. “Shit, you _really _mean it,” he laughed.

“I always mean what I say,” Deuce said, but Ace only giggled so sincerely that his face lit up with it. He always did remind Deuce of the sun, even without his powers – beautiful and warm of heart, and quite certainly all that he could ever desire.

“No you _don’t_,” Ace laughed, “you always try to hide what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t when it comes to you,” and ah, see? Ace couldn’t argue against that, mouthing soundlessly at Deuce before admitting defeat. “I mean it, Ace. I see you, and I see me, and that’s all there is to it. It’ll always be you and me.”

Turning his face to at last look away, to bury his freckled cheeks into his folded arms with a sigh, Ace mumbled, “then that means you’ll be with me when I get to Raftel. When I become the next Pirate King.” The tip of his ear shone brilliantly pink in the dark of the night.

Deuce smiled. “That’s right.”

“And when we get old and wrinkly, you’re gonna—ew, you’re gonna see me go _bald_ and _senile_. You sure you want that?”

“That’s the dream.”

_If we ever make it that far. _

It would always be him. It would always be Ace for whom Deuce would live, who Deuce would be beside no matter what. The world could have his name, have his past, have his birth and his identity as a whole. They could take it all; take the breath from his lungs, the skin from his back, the blood and the tears and his heart and his mind.

But they could never have his love or his loyalty.


	17. Shanks/Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, “touch me one more time and I will sucker punch the hell out of you," for shanksmarco.

Shanks.

That was his name. That was his _only _name, as far as Marco was concerned. Just Shanks. Just Shanks the bastard paramedic who didn’t seem to have a concept of personal space. Just Shanks the bastard paramedic who always seemed to pop up where Marco least expected him, at the worst possible times.

It hadn’t been enough for Shanks the Bastard Paramedic to trail after him during his stint in the ED. No; Shanks the Bastard Paramedic had taken a shine to Marco out of nowhere, for seemingly no reason, and had fucking _transferred hospitals _once Marco’s time in the emergency department was over.

Their fated meeting, as Marco had grown grudgingly accustomed to referring to it as, had seen him, an exhausted, inexperienced, overworked doctor running the entire damn department in the middle of the night, relying on the bouncy, cheerful, energetic paramedic who had brought in the last of the victims of a smash-up between three cars and a postal lorry. Once that partnership had ended after only a few hours (and once Marco tired of thanking Shanks profusely, repeatedly, for aiding him as he had, going above and beyond his role and stepping well into the boundaries of a doctor), Marco had thought that would be the last he saw of the man, save for the occasional glance of him here and there, maybe.

But no. No, Marco was not that lucky. Marco was then to be haunted by the red-haired paramedic, getting waved at from across the department, finding himself _accidentally_, of course, queuing beside him in the coffee shop, and even running into him while out for a run during a rare break here and there.

Shanks the Bastard Paramedic had been everywhere, and now here he was again, dressed to the nines in a pressed suit and flute of champagne in hand, grinning broadly at Marco.

How did Shanks even know the head of gastroenterology? How? There should have been no connection - there should have been no reason for Shanks to wind up at her retirement party, immersing himself in conversation with two of the other physicians who he definitely should not have known. Heck, _Marco _barely knew them – any of them – having only been in the department for little over a month of his four month sign-up.

So how was it that Shanks the Bastard Paramedic was here, too?

It was the first thing that Marco pressed to him upon finding himself in Shanks’ company, the red-head having wended his way through the throngs of doctors, nurses, and surgeons alike to lean against the buffet table next to his favorite junior doctor.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Marco muttered, side-eyeing Shanks and willing himself not to _snarl _at his happy smile, “I’d think you found your way to this event just to annoy me.”

Shanks hummed cheerfully, helping himself to several little sandwiches and a mini quiche. “The last thing I’d ever want to do is annoy you, Marco,” was his chirpy reply, “I can’t see why you won’t just accept my affections and stop getting all angry whenever you see me.”

Marco’s eyebrow twitched. So Shanks _was _aware that he irritated him?

“Your affections?” Marco snorted, keeping his expression pleasant for the benefit of the physician who looked over at that moment, “is that what you call changing hospitals just to come after me? I’d put that more in line with stalking.”

“I didn’t move to come after you.”

Nonsense.

“Of course not,” Marco sighed sarcastically, and goddamn Bastard Shanks was leaning in closer, their arms touching, thigh brushing to Marco's— “you just _happened _to want to move 100 miles north at the exact same time that I got relocated. It’s _always _been your dream to uproot and start over for no reason—”

“No reason that you’re aware of,” Shanks singsonged, cramming a sandwich into his mouth, “you’ve never asked me anything about my personal life, so how do you know I don’t have family up here? A dying mother? A father I want to get to know after years of estrangement?”

Marco considered this for a brief moment. “Do you?”

“Nope.” Ah. “I chased after you, obviously.” Obviously.

And then, without warning, Marco felt a hand slide down his back to come to rest at the curve of his spine, right above his ass.

Oh, this was a new low for Shanks the Bastard Paramedic. This was a new kind of _shit _for him to pull, and Marco was not having it. Not in front of his new colleagues - not out here in public - and certainly not ever with Bastarding Bastard Paramedic Bastard Shanks.

“If you don’t get your hand off me right now,” Marco hissed, gripping his plate so hard his knuckles turned white, “I swear on _your _life that I will punch the ever-loving hell out of you.”

“Oh, good,” Shanks smirked, fingers dipping lower, dangerously close to sneaking over the belt to rub through the fabric of Marco’s pants, “I love a bit of rough foreplay.”

He flinched. He damn well _flinched _away from Shanks’ touch, stepping back and eyeing him like he had never seen him before in his life. That infuriating smug grin was there, paired with the easy grace and air of confidence that followed Shanks wherever he went, whatever he did.

“Let’s ditch this party,” Shanks suggested, that persistent persistence of his causing Marco’s free hand to twitch in response, eager to curl into a fist, “it’s so _dull_, and we could be having so much more _fun _on our own. C'mon, how about it?”

There was no _how about it _to consider. Shanks, in this moment, in every moment from now on, was creepy. Just some creepy stalker who saw fit to follow doctors whenever the whim took his fancy.

“No,” Marco said with finality, setting his plate on the table and turning a frosty glare onto the other man, “I don’t want to associate with you. What kind of man gets himself invited to a retirement party just to get at someone?”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Shanks’ fucking smirk _widened_, “we go _way _back, Charlotte and I. She invited me along because she’s known me since before I could even wipe my ass. Long time friend of the family.” He sighed dramatically, and Marco despised that false little pout of sympathy that Shanks now wore. “Which you would have known if you had talked to her about her family life. Or asked me. Or paid any attention to what happens around you.”

And as Shanks left him with a shrug and another stupid little sigh, Marco really did want to fling something heavy at the back of Shanks the Bastard Paramedic’s head… Anything to get out of admitting to himself that perhaps Shanks was not quite as disturbing as he had originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I take prompts for Anything (including filth) 👀👀👀
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	18. Marco/Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "give me that dank pointy flesh penetration please."
> 
> Warning for needles and piercings.

_You heal almost instantly._

An observation - insignificant and light, without double meaning or carrying weight behind it, delivered over lunch surrounded by the rest of the crew. He had nodded, mouth full of sandwich, mind resting absently on thoughts of reports that still required his attention.

His really rather adorable assistant - his student - commanded this be directed solely onto him.

_Does it hurt? Do things still hurt you?_

Marco had grunted with a shrug. _I guess_, he had said, and in hindsight he should have _known _that the sparkle in Deuce’s eyes was not going to be good news. That sudden piquing of interest; that keen, instant need to learn a truth he could not see, to peel back the skin of a lie to extract his goal from the folds of flesh and bone and webs of nerves that kept his prize so securely out of reach.

Marco was, in that snippet of time, Deuce’s personal experiment. His muse. His one chance to learn something that would hitherto be out of reach to anyone else. By all accounts his powers were fantastically unique; a dream come true for an individual with a thirst for knowledge such as Deuce held. As Marco himself had held. As Marco himself had run wild with and _sought _to explain the unexplainable through methods of slicing, carving, breaking and ruining.

In retrospect, he should have expected this. The warning signs were all there, right down to the manner in which Deuce had immediately stopped eating, chin cradled in palm and surveying Marco across the table like he was the topic of a highly interesting class. Probably because in Deuce’s eyes, he now was. It was his own fault for ignoring the slight narrowing of eyes, the controlled swallow, the increase in respiratory rate. It was not Deuce’s fault that Marco had never assumed him to be of the caliber to carry out his own fascination on a subject, least of all himself.

Although, all things considered, what Deuce asked of him was tame. Gentle. Almost _sweet_ in comparison to what _he _had done to himself on learning that he could heal any physical injury, sickness, or disease.

_Can I, _Deuce had breathed, _test that?_

Marco was not one to deprive his students of the opportunity to learn. Especially not when they asked for it _so _nicely.

So he sat in the infirmary. Allowed Deuce to clean his hands, his ears, his face as a whole, taking particular care (although under the guise of missing a spot, endearingly) over the swell of his lower lip, pulling it down just enough by _accident_, of course, to expose white teeth and gum.

Where Marco’s mind had jumped so casually to images of dismemberment, to horrific burns and guts spilling from hideous wounds (because that was what _he _had done with frightening ease), Deuce’s imagination did not sink so low. Yet, at least.

No - this was really rather _sweet_, carrying with it something almost bordering on romantic, poetic, and intimate. The tiny, thin needles that were laid out on the tray beside Marco’s seat were sterile, of course, single-use and bought by the hundred, effective for all kinds of aspiration work. Or, in their case—

“I’m going to pierce your ears first,” Deuce said calmly, so _calmly_, opting to go clinical and detached and _dully professional_, “so that I can work up from there. Get a baseline, y’know.”

He knew.

He didn’t know the end, though - the upper limit of what Deuce had planned. And, judging by the way his favorite student surveyed his face, searched his eyes for any signs of withdrawal from offering himself up as a guinea pig, he didn’t know it yet, either.

“Do you have a needle phobia?” Marco raised an eyebrow in response, a laugh at the absurd question clamped back behind teeth. “Hm. Shame.”

… Perhaps not _quite _so dully professional after all. The thought brought out a lazy grin from Marco, caused him to look at Deuce a little differently from then on, that rational, dispassionate front turning transparent without him even being aware.

The lobes were first; a tingling prick of metal slicing through skin, the hollow cylindrical needle making easy work of both left and right. Marco gave a pain score of one out of ten - yawned for good measure and settled back into the chair. Set a silent challenge to which Deuce was not privy, taking an almost smug sort of satisfaction in his approach to needling out Marco’s pain tolerance.

_Let’s see if you can be creative enough to elicit anything higher than a two._

The look that Deuce wore suggested that perhaps he _knew _somehow, eyes flashing dangerously and lip curling almost imperceptibly, of the type to be easily explained away as a mere accident had it been challenged.

Each needle stayed in place, held snug by hot, swollen skin once the three lobe piercings were in place in each ear. They weren’t going to be removed, Deuce explained upon touching one, gauging Marco’s (utter lack of) response. They were going to stay in situ until they were finished - until Deuce was ready to pull and twist and watch tiny blue flames erupt to heal such laughably trivial wounds.

And Marco - to his sudden dark, vile surprise - _wanted _Deuce to want to do that.

Wanted Deuce to _try _and make him hurt, to take the clinical approach and fling it far off, allow himself to delve into something cruel and wretched that undoubtedly lurked under that rigidly masked exterior.

He heard his cartilage rip, the fabled popping sound non-existent and giving way only to a clean, satisfying _slice_. Again, a pain level of one was expressed, and, again, Deuce did poorly to hide his dissatisfaction.

Once more, slicing clean through the top of his ear to rest beside the previous needle, the thing heated by his own body responding to swell, to stiffen, at the foreign intrusion, the cutting away of such a tough material.

“One,” was the idle drawl, the lazy grin. “Try somewhere else.”

A click of a tongue; a roll of dark eyes. “Don’t rush me.”

The concha was much the same, the thicker cartilage providing a far more intimate, gratifying _rip_.

But if intimate was what Marco was looking for in the present, physical act of piercing, he knew by now (had known since the moment Deuce put on fucking _gloves_) that he was going to be disappointed. No; the intimacy lay in his student’s reactions, in the pitching of his breath upon pushing each needle through the resistance that Marco’s body provided, following his own guidance to _breathe in, hold it, and breathe out_ without noticing that Marco declined to follow his direction. Without registering that he had the tip of his tongue pinched hard between his teeth, eyes narrowed to follow the sure course of the needle on each venture through tiny blood vessels and skin and bendy cartilage alike.

So wonderfully, wonderfully honest and _prone_.

It was sickeningly sweet how Deuce thought he could ever hope to have any real form of command over Marco.

“You know,” Marco said carefully, controlled, delicate in his approach towards the unavoidable fallout that his offer would inevitably bring, “if you were just looking to penetrate me, you wouldn’t have to dress it up like this. I wouldn’t say no to a direct offer.”

Deuce slipped, the tenth needle rushing through his fingertips to stab hard, miss its target, and bury itself at an odd angle within the left tragus, tip of the surgical needle scratching menacingly close to the inside of the ear canal.

At last a rating of _two _was achieved, and the flames that threatened to dance into life had to be quelled before they could respond to a hiss sucked through teeth.

“Where I come from,” Deuce replied, the little cough he gave not nearly enough to cover up his reaction, his blunder, “you’d have a terrible reputation as a slut.”

“And where _I _come from, you would be labelled as dishonest. People would seek to take advantage of that.”

A snort. “People like you?”

A cock of his head to the left, inviting his student to work his creativity there instead, the gentle clatter of needles plucked from the tray gaining his momentary attention. “Perhaps.” An almost pleasant tingle of discomfort coursed through Marco from his lobe without warning, the third needle in situ taken between latex-gloved fingertips to be twisted almost cruelly. “Ah, foreplay?” His grin grew under the tight line of Deuce’s lips pressed firm together. “I wouldn’t recommend getting filthy in the infirmary, though. Anyone could walk in. Or is that part of the allure for you?”

A derisive laugh, a curl of disgust entangling with the bright sound, and the needle was pulled out an inch, tugging the lobe with it.

“Confident, aren’t you?” Deuce asked despite the answer being readily available. It really was _enticing_, that little hint of disbelief that peeked out from the mask he wore not on his face, but over his heart. _Some things are best left alone_, he would say, probably, before changing the subject. _Some ventures aren’t supposed to be pursued at all. _

Such a _shame_.

Such a shame that Marco was going to have to work to change his mind after this was through.

“I think,” Marco said slowly, taking Deuce’s arm none too gently in his grasp, pulling him in closer when he moved to bolt away like a frightened rabbit caught in headlights, that snarky, challenging air dissipating so suddenly the air turned frigid, “we’ve established that this doesn’t hurt. Care to try something else, young doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	19. Gen - Ace, Thatch, Izou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, ""I'm not blind, you know. I see the way he looks at you—always sickeningly sweet." Without a doubt someone like Thatch or Izou with Ace that doesn't realize that Deuce is so fucking in love with him!"

“Ugh, he’s doing it again,” Thatch sighed, chin sinking into his palm. “I don’t think I can stomach this anymore, Izou, I really, _really _don’t.”

Izou’s eyebrow twitched, painted lips pursing, on following Thatch’s gaze to the pair on deck. “Which one are you referring to?” He asked, raising his cup to sip at his tea. “Oblivious Idiot or Obvious Idiot?”

Thatch thought for a moment, frowning at the duo. Those were good descriptions for Ace and Deuce, now that he thought about it. Oblivious Idiot Ace, who either refused to recognise or simply just _did not _recognise that Deuce pined for him so. Obvious Idiot Deuce, who now paused his conversation with his previous captain to tuck Ace’s hair behind his ear fondly, thumbing at his cheek completely unnecessarily. If Thatch hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that the two were already a couple and well on their merry way to getting married, what with how Ace smiled at Deuce like _that_.

“Fuckin’ Deuce, man,” Thatch grumbled, accepting the second cup that Izou poured with a nod of gratitude, “look at him! Touching Ace again! He’s _always _touching Ace.”

“You barely ever give the boy any personal space yourself,” Izou pointed out, smiling pleasantly at Thatch’s look of disgust.

“That’s not the same and you know it,” Thatch retorted, and oh, look at that, Deuce was brushing something imaginary off Ace’s shoulder now, looking far more soft and content than anyone _should _do in such a mundane situation. “If Pops hadn’t claimed him as his own son, then I’d have cracked out the adoption papers months ago. No— this, Izou, _this _is gross. This is unrequited love.”

Their conversation - or rather, Thatch’s one-sided whining - came to an abrupt halt when Deuce was called away by Marco. Grasping Ace’s hands in a fleeting squeeze, he turned on his heel and left, looking to all the world like a man striding to his death rather than to answer a question about a patient, most likely.

Taking pity on how lost and sad Ace suddenly appeared (which in itself was _highly _interesting), Thatch summoned his innermost Dad Skills and bellowed for his beloved charge to come join their little tea party.

“Don’t put him on the spot,” Izou hissed as Ace trotted over, “and don’t go outing Deuce’s feelings; he’ll hate you for it.”

“Nah he won’t, he’ll thank me,” Thatch grinned at Izou’s look of horror, holding out an inviting arm to accept Ace at his side and pulling him into a bear hug once the other commander had sat down. “You all right, Acey? Having a good morning? Feeling okay now your BFF’s been snatched away by his Birdy Boss?”

Ace laughed loud and open at the nickname. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Be_cause_,” Thatch said dramatically, gesturing grandly in the direction Deuce had left, “you two are joined at the hip! Soul mates! Two of a kind! Sharing the same braincell!”

Ace snorted and shook his head, looking to Izou for an answer; Izou merely sipped at his tea, gaze fixed resolutely in the other direction. “He’ll be done soon enough.”

“Yeah,” Thatch leaned in with what he clearly believed to be a fatherly look, yet it came across as creepy and sinister, “and then he’ll be right back to being all _yes, Ace _and _anything for you, Ace_ and _please let me die for you, Ace._” Thatch inhaled deeply at Ace’s puzzled look and then, through his subsequent sigh, said, “ah, lad, it’s just not funny anymore. Just hurry up and notice it already.”

“Notice what?” Ace asked. “And no offence, but have you _met _Deuce? That was a terrible impression of him. He’s way more snappy than that.”

“Only sometimes,” Thatch shot back, looking thoroughly pleased with himself while ignoring Izou’s exasperated sigh, “only when he’s either not around you or when you’re doing something ridiculous.” He paused to gulp down his tea, earning a sneer of disgust from Izou.

“Ace,” Izou said, taking advantage of the momentary silence, “Deuce is very important to you, isn’t he?”

Ace nodded enthusiastically, his smile so adorably bright it was almost blinding. “Yeah, like you wouldn’t believe!” He confirmed, slapping Thatch on the back when the other man choked on his tea. “He’s my best friend; my everything! Dunno what I’d do without him, actually.”

“And would you say he feels the same way?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“_Yeah, probably?” _Thatch echoed, setting his cup back down on the crate acting as a makeshift table. “Mate, the guy’s in love with you, of course he feels the same way!”

The effects of his words - intractable, irreversible - were immediate. Cheeks igniting (literally, for a second) into crimson, Ace gaped at Thatch while Izou slapped Thatch’s arm with a loud scathing sound.

“No, he’s not,” Ace tried (and failed) to laugh, drumming his palms to his knees and watching the way his foot bounced nervously, “he’s not. He can’t be. He knows—” he drew up short, took in a deep breath, “he knows too much about my background to feel anything like—”

“So?” Thatch challenged, and even Izou seemed to have given up on keeping the conversation away from discussing the deeper, hidden aspects of the former captain and first mate’s relationship. “He’s your best friend despite knowing whatever’s got you pulling that face. He loves you as a friend, doesn’t he? That’s what it means to be a best friend; you love them through and through, whatever their past. Just ask Marco; I love him to death. Best friend I coulda ever asked for, and he’s done some downright awful things.”

“So have you,” Izou murmured into his cup.

“That’s it!” Ace almost yelled, looking up at Izou, eyes dazzling bright, “Deuce is _perfect_ and has never done anything— he’s— he didn’t come from someone who—”

As much as Thatch dearly wished to know what in Ace’s past had got his expression twisting like he had swallowed something bitter, he rerouted the conversation. “Look, we’re not blind, y’know,” he said gently, lowering his tone to something softer and less screechy, “we’ve seen the way he looks at you, and it’s disgusting.”

“Sickeningly sweet,” Izou chimed in, casting such a caring, tender look at Ace’s clear turmoil that even Thatch’s heart clenched, “and so very much in love with you.”

“Despite what he knows about you,” Thatch added.

“Because he loves you as you are right now,” Izou explained, smiling kindly at Ace’s bewilderment, “because he’s mature enough to understand that the circumstances of your birth, your upbringing, whatever it is that you’re worried about… are beyond your control.”

Ace fidgeted in his seat, not meeting their eyes. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you _knew_,” he muttered, “but yeah, I guess Deuce really doesn’t… care about all of that.” He scratched at the back of his head, clearly thinking hard. “But that doesn’t mean to say he _loves _me. Not romantically. Not—” his gaze flashed to meet Thatch’s, eyes narrowing at Thatch’s sudden smirk, “not sexually.”

“I think he does,” Thatch grinned.

“Ignore him,” Izou interjected coolly, leaning forward to better see Ace around Thatch. “Sweetheart, all we’re saying is that you’re every bit as important to him as he is to you. I think you would be pleasantly surprised if you asked him about his feelings; he’d probably spill everything to you.”

“Yeah,” Thatch snorted, “including his—”

“So why don’t you have a quiet word with him later,” Izou said loudly, drowning out Thatch’s vulgar words, “if you want to, of course.”

“Or not,” Thatch said casually, “not like you _have_ to do anything about this.”

“But you’re hoping that I will,” Ace shrewdly observed.

“Correct, my boy.”

Ace sighed and stood, rising to his toes in an overhead stretch. “I’ll think about it,” he said, “but don’t get your hopes up, either of you. I think you’re wrong; Deuce just sees me as a friend.”

As Ace left them, Thatch turned to Izou and smirked, “if my friends missed their mouths with their dinner when I flexed, I’d be worried.” Izou hummed in reply, indulging Thatch with a smile. “Or if they made shit excuses to watch me work out. Or freaked out when I said I wanted to bunk with them after a particularly graphic nightmare. Or—”

“I hope he _does _say something to Deuce,” Izou sighed wistfully, “they really are made for each other, those two. Shame they’re both tragically useless at romance.”

Thatch thought for a moment, draining the last of his tea, before saying, “wanna go give Deuce some tips on coming out as wildly in love with his bestie?”

“No need, love; that’s what Marco’s talking to him about.”

“Seriously?!” Thatch spluttered. “You’ve been talking to _Marco _about them?!”

But Izou only flashed him a radiant smile before finishing his own tea, the conversation coming to a less than satisfying finish, much to Thatch’s annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	20. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "You kissed me! / yeah and you slapped me For AceDeuce 👀👀"

A slap, crisp and loud as a gunshot, rang and echoed across the deck of the Spadille. The music died down, jovial singing and shouting voices coming to a halt alongside the screech of a bow stilling against violin strings. No one moved for a long, drawn out second that bled into another, another.

All eyes were trained on either their captain or first mate, wide and curious, yet none capable of even beginning to try to pretend that they were in any way surprised by the sudden interruption of their raucous evening.

“Oh.” Deuce bit his lip, instantly looking guilty and leaning away, back, from the little circle that made up brains, heart, and cat of the crew. “Um, Ace, I’m…”

Because there was nothing unusual about this particular scene, even if the inciting factor was one that was outside of the norm. There was nothing odd, after all, about the duo drinking too much, like the rest of them. It was, as ever, rather predictable for Deuce to overreact to, well, just about anything, and for Ace, their beloved life and soul of the party, to have been the one to rile him up to that point where his fragile bubble of composure popped.

And oh, they would all be lying through their teeth if they said they didn’t _love _the drama and the antics that the two entertained them with on a daily basis.

“You slapped me!” Ace cried, half-laughing in disbelief. Gingerly, the wince far more pronounced than it had any right to be, Ace laid a palm to cover Deuce’s angry red print left behind where he’d struck him.

All eyes swivelled, keenly waiting for Deuce to blaze into defensiveness.

“You _kissed _me!” His splutter was less of a screech than they had hoped for, if truth be told. His words left him as confused disbelief, a touch of regret for hitting his captain peppering his tone. “What the hell, Ace?”

“You’ve _never _slapped me like that before!”

“And _you’ve _never kissed me?!”

The shock seemed to be wearing off rapidly – or at least, Deuce’s frown was becoming more pronounced with every second, blush rising with each repetition of the word _kiss _and voice growing ever stronger.

This game was _fun_, the collective masses of the Spade pirates decided as one, it seemed. This was something that had been begging to be addressed for a very, _very _long time now, and weren’t they just so lucky to be able to witness the moment their floundering founders finally addressed what was so obvious? So obvious, even, that random marines would sometimes stop trying to arrest them long enough to ask if the rumors were true, that the captain and first mate of the rookie East Blue crew really _were _a couple.

“I’m sorry!” Ace shouted, waving his tankard in the air and slopping beer down his arm in the process, “dunno what I was thinking! You just—” he looked to Skull and Mihar and, ignoring their barely stifled snorts and giggles, silently implored they step in and support. They did nothing of the sort. “You looked really cute all of a sudden, like, really inviting and soft when you looked at me—”

“I looked at you normally!” Deuce interjected, incredulous, also glancing to his crewmates for a helping hand and, just like Ace, receiving only smirks and eager anticipation written across their faces – even Kotatsu’s, the damn traitor. “You say something funny – I look at you! And would that even—would you—do you just kiss whoever happens to look at you a certain way?”

Shoving a hand through his hair in clear distress, Ace swallowed thickly before answering. “No,” he said shortly, “don’t be stupid. There’s no way I—”

But Deuce touching his lips tentatively, distractedly, probably not even aware that he was doing it, slammed the breaks on Ace’s sentence and left him choking and wide-eyed.

“What?” Deuce prompted, middle finger resting to the swell of his lower lip, “there’s no way you’d what?”

“Are you doing that on purpose?!” Ace exploded, and, sure enough, much to everyone’s immense glee, fire erupted along his shoulders and spine, a nifty signal that he was becoming wound up tight like a spring.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to be all— all— _seductive _like that!”

It was Deuce’s turn to splutter and flail, snatching his hand away from his mouth and burying it into his lap. His cheeks blazed almost as bright as Ace’s (which actually _did _spark with flames, endearingly), wordlessly mouthing something that greatly resembled the word _seductive_.

Unable to help himself, laughing fit to burst, Skull stepped in to save the day from the two screaming idiots. “So you think Boss Deu’s a bit of alrigh’, do ye?” His eyes twinkled behind his mask, grin reducing them to slits as Ace and Deuce both _howled _their humiliation. “S’fine! No one’s judgin’! We won’t mind if ye wanna take this argument below deck and sort it out in private, if ye catch me drift.”

“With _him?!” _Deuce yelled, laughably over-dramatic for someone reluctant to try that kissing business out for a second, third, fourth time.

“Hey, it was a drunken whim!” Ace cried, flames crackling into brighter intensity, encouraging Kotatsu to shift closer hopefully, “I’d kiss any of you guys in a heartbeat! I’m not secretly hopelessly in love with Deuce or anything!”

They might have believed his lie (maybe. Probably not) if he had not then screamed and slammed the heel of his palm into Skull’s chin when he leaned in with the most awfully exaggerated pucker they had ever seen.

And maybe they would have believed Deuce, too (again, perhaps not), had he not reacted _terribly, _betraying his true feelingsunder the threat of someone else kissing Ace.

Seizing Ace by the shoulder, Deuce pulled him away from Skull’s continued efforts to shower adoration onto his captain and held him tight to his chest, looking downright horrified at his crewmate’s behavior.

… before he seemed to realise what he was doing and attempted to backtrack spectacularly.

“So there you have it,” he said hastily, picking up where Ace had left off and denying the blindingly obvious, shoving Ace away and holding him at arm’s length with such speed he was in danger of giving the other man whiplash, “it was just a mistake. We’re going to forget this ever happened.”

But no. Oh, no. The crew would never let them forget their disastrous first kiss… that paved the way for plenty others that were more than satisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	21. Marco/Ace/Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Marco, a restaurant owner, receives a call from his boyfriends one afternoon. They need help, and Marco isn't entirely certain he is prepared to provide. It's their own stupid fault, anyway.
> 
> (Prompted by being tagged in a general post on tumblr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts in one day?!

The phone trilled at Marco’s desk in his office, the tone indicative of an internal call. He picked up with little interest, assuming it to be Thatch calling from the kitchens to pick his brains on what the staff might want for snacks today.

To his mild surprise, though, it was not Thatch rambling off half-baked ideas of pastries or potentially setting up a barbecue out the back for when break time rolled around, but one of the restaurant’s bar staff.

“You’re gonna want to take this call, sir,” the young woman advised before Marco could even say hello, “it’s, ah, a personal call for you. They said you weren’t picking up your cell, so… And they said they were in trouble.”

With a looming sense of doom fast approaching and his gut telling him to hang up, that he didn’t want to get involved with whatever _they_ were bringing to his little office above his business, Marco sighed and took his glasses off. “Fine,” he said heavily, “thanks, Emily.”

This wouldn’t be the first time his two boyfriends had managed to get themselves _in trouble _in his absence, and Marco sincerely doubted that it would be the last.

Her smile could almost be heard over the phone as she transferred the call to him, and suddenly Marco was met with the sounds of his two most beloved idiots bickering while they waited to be connected.

“Ah, hello? Marco?” Ace’s voice rang out so loud that Marco had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Marco? It’s Ace. You okay? Working hard? You didn’t pick up your cell. Is it on silent again?”

“Yes,” Marco said, leaning back in his office chair that creaked slightly, “I didn’t want to be disturbed while doing the accounts.”

His implication was ignored completely, Ace waving off the fact that he was interrupting important work that ensured everyone got paid. “Good! That’s what we like to hear. Listen, so, me and Deuce—”

“Deuce and I,” Deuce’s irritated voice snapped clean through Ace’s, clear enough to allow Marco to build up a picture of the two of them crowding the phone, heads together to listen to their partner without having to go on speakerphone, “I keep telling you, you sound so dumb when you say _me and Deuce_—”

Ace made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat, and Marco imagined him rolling his eyes. “Like Marco cares about that right now. _You _shouldn’t care about that right now.”

“What happened to you?” Marco halted the bickering loudly, heading it off before they really got going. “Emily said you were in trouble.”

“Only _kind of_,” Ace pressed emphasis on the words, trying to comfort Marco – and failing spectacularly because he only ever used that tone to cover up whatever stupid shit he wasn’t supposed to have done in the first place, “because, y’see, Deu and I were bored, right, so we went to get lunch at that place you keep saying is, um, what was it, Deu? What does Marco call their food?”

“About as appetising as a crusty old jerk-off sock—”

“Yeah!” Ace snorted, “that place! So we ate there, and you’re _right _Marco oh my _god _their food is disgusting, Deuce made this face like he was gonna cry, it was so funny, I’ll show you the video later—”

“So then we went to pay,” Deuce cut in, sounding thoroughly unamused even though Marco was beginning to enjoy the story, trying to guess where it was going to end up and how it tied in with this random phone call, “and I _told _Ace I didn’t have any cash on me when we left the apartment, I said ‘_make sure you bring your wallet ‘cause I’m broke until payday next week’_, and Ace said he had it in his pocket – slapped his thigh to prove it – so we left, and—”

“—I still maintain this is your fault for believing me,” Ace muttered, sounding annoyed and shocked that Deuce could have ever made the enormous mistake of trusting Ace with money.

“Don’t you _dare _try and pin this on me,” Deuce growled.

Marco sighed again, massaging the arch of his eyebrows with forefinger and thumb. “So you need me to come over and pay?” He asked, already calculating how long it would take to drive over and bail out his fools. If he got off the phone quickly, he could probably do the whole trip – and survive the humiliation of paying for the two young men like he was their _father_ or something – in about an hour. That was fine; that was leverage enough to get a whole shift of bar-tending out of them both for free.

“Uh…” Marco instantly and categorically did not appreciate the hesitancy in Ace’s voice. “Not exactly.”

“You might have to afterwards, but…” Deuce sounded every bit as reluctant to address what had to be the most pressing matter of the conversation all of a sudden.

“But what?” Marco asked flatly, dreading what was to come.

“So what happened was this—” Ace started up again, but Marco cut him off.

“No,” he said in that same deadpan voice, “I’d rather know what you’ve got yourselves into so I can gauge how thoroughly I have to beat your asses. I don’t care about the preamble. Where are you and what do I have to do?”

Silence. Ringing silence, bar the faint crackle of the phone line, had Marco sighing audibly through his nose so hard that there was no way Ace and Deuce hadn’t heard it.

“Have you ever been to a police station, Marco?” Ace asked innocently, and that was all Marco needed to hear to have him slapping his forehead in exasperation.

“You got _arrested?”_ He snapped; had they been face to face, he was under no doubts that they both would have flinched as they always did whenever their normally calm partner lost his temper.

“Only a little bit,” Deuce said, sounding embarrassed and sulky, “they said they’ll let us go if you come pay our bail and sign some forms and stuff.”

“Deuce, what the fuck?” Marco shot at him, “this is going to go on your record! You’ll risk getting struck off the register and you’ll have to kiss those dreams of becoming a doctor goodbye!” Another awkward silence; Marco’s elbows hit the desk hard as he leaned forward. “Okay, I take back what I said – I need to know how you two managed this. What prevented you from just calling and waiting for me to come over?”

They both broke into explanations at the same time, Ace’s voice rising excitedly in a narration of their mad shenanigans while Deuce settled on simply trying to apologise over and over. It was hard to make out, though, and Marco had to put the phone on the desk to give himself a moment to marvel at their combined stupidity.

“One at a time,” he said, bringing the phone back to his ear, “Ace, you go first.”

“So yeah, as I was saying,” Ace burst into words at once, “when we realised we couldn’t pay, I sorta grabbed Deu and we tried to make a run for it, y’know, a good ol’ dine-n-dash thing like from those old movies you watch—”

“But there were tables all over the place,” Deuce interrupted, that beseeching tone never leaving him, begging that Marco understood, “and I couldn’t—he didn’t tell me that’s what we were doing, he grabbed me by the collar and nearly _strangled _me, Marco, so I—”

“—So Deu,” and suddenly Ace was laughing down the phone, which did nothing to help improve Marco’s mood, “he did this crazy spin and flailed and he—oh my _god _Marco you should have seen it, I almost died—”

“I punched an old lady in the face!” Deuce gasped, sounding horror-struck at the memory. Ace’s ringing laughter almost drowned out the rest of Deuce’s sentence of, “right in the jaw! While I was trying to get my balance back!”

“And then her son – at least I _think _he was her son, coulda been her toy-boy for all I know – fucking flew at Deu and started a fist fight while I helped this poor lady back up – she was fine by the way, I wouldn’t be laughing if he’d _hurt _her—”

“—the son’s here too, I think, for assault—”

“—you absolutely deserved it though, punching an elderly lady like that—”

“—this was _your fault_, Ace; if you hadn’t grabbed me like that, I wouldn’t have—”

Marco hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who reads my other stuff - Arrhythmia chapter 8 is currently at 7000 words and I'm going to do my best to get it finished this weekend.
> 
> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	22. Sabo/Koala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Hi, could I have a uuuuhhh.. Koala giving a number 8 kiss to Sabo? O.O" from a kiss prompt list. Number 8 is "Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's short!!

“Argh, dammit.”

The sound of his frustration had Koala looking up from her paper with mild interest. “What’s the matter, Sabo-kun?”

It took a moment for Sabo to reply, massaging the back of his ungloved hand distractedly. “It’s the fruit,” he said, and Koala’s chest tightened at his tone of disappointment, like the thing was rejecting him – not that she would ever let on that she disliked hearing him sound so saddened, “I still can’t get it to—”

He yelped as fire sparked along the back of his hand again, shaking it roughly like that would do anything to help extinguish a Devil Fruit. So Koala sighed and rose, setting her paper down.

“Here, give me your hand,” she said, holding out her own. Sabo did as he was told, the flames quelling on her fingers making contact with his palm. “Hold still.”

It was downright _cute _how Sabo stiffened when she pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, fingers spasming like he wanted to grab at her (like he would ever _dare _to). But, as usual, this was not something that she needed to share with him.

“There,” she said softly, lips sliding over his warm skin, “all you need is a _reason _to control it.” Her deep blue gaze flickered up to meet his, and whatever wonder she saw blinking rapidly down at her was instantly replaced with fear when she added, “if you can’t control it and end up burning me, Sabo-kun, I’ll shoot you between the eyes faster than you can say your own name. Do you understand?”

He did. He certainly did. There was no mistaking her tone, and Sabo knew full well that only pain awaited him should he slip up and cause her injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	23. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "46 deuceace but before ace leaves to hunt down blackbeard... if you want( love your writing!!! it makes me so happy to see you update!!!)" from a kiss prompt list, with number 46 being, "A lingering kiss before a long trip apart."

“I’m going with you.”

He had expected this response – hadn’t bothered shutting their bedroom door to hide his fevered packing from the only person who would dare follow him when he was in such a destructive rage. This was where Deuce’s single biggest and most awful flaw lay, and Ace now found himself detesting that love and loyalty that his partner carried for him no matter what.

He had expected this, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it or welcome it. This time, he would not indulge Deuce’s desire to follow regardless of what a deplorable man his object of fancy was.

Ace snorted a derisive, bitter noise. “No, you aren’t,” he said tonelessly, stuffing a map into his bag, “you’re staying right here where you belong. Where you’re safe.”

Boots squeaked on the wooden floor with how quickly Deuce moved, and the door sounded like it was going to crack under the force with which he slammed it.

“I belong,” Deuce snarled, grasping Ace by the shoulder and pulling him round to meet anger, fear, and sickening devotion, “with _you_. Don’t give me that shit.”

But Ace wasn’t fucking around. They had grown sloppy, lazy, arrogantly foolish enough to think that in their peace under Pops’ protection, nothing could hurt them or the ones they had grown to love. And now Thatch, his kind-hearted, wonderful friend, had paid the ultimate price for Ace’s grandest of mistakes.

“Do as I damn well say and stay here,” Ace growled, shrugging Deuce off, “you aren’t coming with me this time. I’m going alone.”

Hurt flashed behind the mask just long enough for Ace to wonder if that was going to be enough to get him to leave (as if it ever could), but then Deuce rallied immediately. “I swore I would live for you,” he said, stilling Ace’s desperate attempt to roll up and shove a coat into the green bag with a hand over his, “die for you, too,” he added loudly over Ace’s pointed, furious sigh, “_anything_, Ace. I don’t care, as long as its for you. Use me; I’d be helpful. Let me help you avenge Thatch.”

“I don’t need _help_,” Ace hissed through clenched teeth, “and I have to do this alone. You’re _not. Coming_.”

The pain was more evident this time, and Ace was once again able to twist out of his partner’s hold. It hurt to speak to Deuce like this; it hurt to deliver this attack to where he was most vulnerable, where Ace knew he would take the most damage. A necessary evil, that’s what it was – one that _had _to be delivered lest he crack, crumble, and turn the tables, _begging _Deuce to go with him, for it to just be the two of them on the Striker again against the whole terrifying world. He was right – he _would _be useful and his presence _would _be appreciated, every bit as comforting and calming as it had been in daily life here before Marco had woken them this morning with the terrible news.

But that was where he – they – had gone wrong, allowing for that comfort, complacency, to rule their lives and give leverage to the fungus that grew and planned and brewed from within.

Plus, Deuce was at risk, every bit as mortal as Thatch and vastly more susceptible to a fatal attack. If Teach could bring down a commander like Thatch, what could he do to a doctor like Deuce?

“Why?” Deuce thundered, “why now? Why is _this _where you draw the line and cut me off?”

Ace didn’t know if it was stubbornness, stupidity, or just Deuce’s own capacity to love so blindly that he couldn’t see the answer glaring at him through silver eyes framed by freckles.

Whatever it was, it made Ace downright mad to have to spell it out for him.

“Because I can’t risk losing you too!” He shouted, slamming down his bag with such force that half the contents spilled back out. Fury coursed through him, teeth bared and ready to fight whatever challenged him in this adrenaline-fuelled state, even if that meant Deuce. Silence met him, Deuce taken aback and shocked. “This situation is bad enough, Deuce, without the chance of losing you too added in! You’re so precious to me – I can’t bear the thought of—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard and turning away from the soft, tender expression that Deuce suddenly regarded him with. “You have to stay safe; I have to protect you. Don’t ask me to risk your life like this.”

Gloved hands cupped his face and turned it back towards Deuce, thumbs stroking gentle comfort into his cheeks. Before he could protest, before he could fight off that ever-present, ever-intrusive pull back towards his partner that he was now trying _so _hard to rid himself of, Deuce silenced the ache of the pain that stabbed deep into Ace’s heart with a hard, urgent kiss.

He didn’t want it to end; he didn’t want this moment to stop, for the present to come rushing back to surge and to drag him back under. The feeling of Deuce, so familiar and so damnably comforting, barely giving them a chance to breathe with how passionate and demanding he was, almost made Ace rethink his decision to leave.

Almost.

He returned the kiss with vigor, pulling Deuce in as close as he could by the neck to lick in deeper, to map him, to taste and to feel and to _remember _him just in case this all went dramatically wrong. Every ridge of the roof of his mouth was relearned; every edge of every tooth; each of his stuttered gasps, the small, breathless moan elicited on sucking the tip of his tongue before letting himself be pulled back in.

It felt like a goodbye, one more honest than words could ever carry their feelings. Deuce tasted like loss, and Ace had to wonder if he bore the same flavor.

“I love you,” Deuce mouthed to Ace’s lips, and to Ace’s horror (but not surprisingly) he sounded on the verge of tears, “Ace, I love you.”

A love that he had never deserved; a love that he reciprocated and treasured, despite how he had fought it.

Ace tucked Deuce’s hair behind his ears tenderly, brushing the backs of his fingers to his left cheek. Deuce leaned into the touch, cupping Ace’s hand to hold it there, to kiss the inside of his wrist over his ragged pulse. “I love you, too,” Ace said firmly, “which is why you’re not coming with me.”

Suppressed tears – or perhaps it was anger, or incredulous laughter – caused Deuce to tremble, his breath to come labored and heavy. “You can’t stop me.”

“I can, if I have to.” And he would; they both knew that he would. “This isn’t forever, though. I’ll be back to driving you insane before you can miss me.”

“I always miss you.” The tears swelled in earnest, Deuce never being one to hold them back even at the best of times. “Always, even when you’re next to me, it isn’t enough. It’s never enough. It’s—” His breath hitched, throat constricted by the hiccup of a sob that left him, and Ace carefully thumbed away the tears that trickled down his cheeks. “I can’t do this,” he admitted, defeated and hurting, “I can’t let you go. This is—this is all _wrong, _Ace, this should never have happened. And it’s _not _your fault,” he snapped when Ace opened his mouth, “so don’t you _dare_—don’t even _think _that you’re to blame. This is all on Teach, not you.”

There was no point arguing, not when Ace was rapidly running out of time, giving Teach a bigger head start with every moment that he spent here on the floor of the bedroom that he shared with Deuce. Always together – two halves of a whole, complete and inseparable. And yet here Ace was – no, here _Teach _was – wielding the blade to sever a connection that should have been unbreakable.

So instead Ace kissed Deuce again, muffling his anguish, loving him with everything he possessed for just a minute longer until he was to leave and chase Death itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	24. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "could I also ask for AceDeuce with kiss 31 - kisses with whispered words of love?"

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

His breath whispered soft over Deuce’s cheeks in the pitch black, words barely formed under the urgent desire to remain silent. Waking the others wasn’t an option; rousing their attention and letting them know that their captain was still not asleep despite their combined best efforts was not something that Ace could allow.

The barest sigh of protest rumbled in the back of Deuce’s throat, caught and silenced before he could fully verbalise his rebuke. “I’m not sorry.” Barely a sigh; barely a sound. Fingers brushed gentle to Ace’s freckled cheek, bumping gently to the corner of his eye in the dark. “I can’t apologise for that, Ace.”

Lips followed, placed tender to his own. Lingering, embracing him in a way that strong arms, passionate heart, and prose laced with poetry could never begin to achieve. Deuce’s warmth slid in closer, chest bare and heart pounding restless within, verified on Ace’s palm guided there to touch.

“I don’t need protecting.” Yet Ace kissed back, inhaling deep into Deuce’s touch, sliding closer still to tangle limbs beneath the sheets. “I can handle whatever idiots they send after us.” Skull snorted a disgusting snore in his sleep, and both captain and first mate flinched violently. Laughter was suppressed with difficulty, calmed by a slower, deeper kiss that saw Ace part his lips to lick light to Deuce’s offered tongue.

“Whether you need it or not,” Deuce breathed, fingers finding thick dark hair and capturing it to hold, to anchor, “I gave it to you. I will give it to you as many times as I see fit.”

“At the expense of your own well-being?”

The faintest of exhales betrayed Deuce’s smile in the dark. He sidestepped the question, as he so often tended to do when the question of his own disregard for self-preservation in the face of Ace’s continued benefit arose. “If they had hurt you,” Deuce whispered, lips brushing Ace’s, “if they had been so cowardly as to attack when your back was turned…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence; the implication hung thick in the air amid the snores, the groans, the occasional cough. It was easier to sleep around people – the more, the better, Ace said. He didn’t know if that was the case for Deuce too – he wouldn’t be honest if it wasn’t.

The steady, rhythmic heartbeat under his palm thrummed with life, with the promise of devotion and absolute loyalty. The lips seeking out his again swore only love and care, delivered how Deuce saw fit. The gentle caress to the back of his neck, pulling him closer still where he would go even if not led, left Ace yearning for what he already possessed.

“I love you, Deu.”

Deuce’s breath faltered, his heartbeat turning erratic and frantic with those three words.

“I love you so much.”

He closed his eyes to the kiss, as easy as the last, as sure as all that would follow. The weight of Deuce’s palm came to rest at his neck, thumbing to the dip in his collarbone. Touching. Feeling. Content in simply holding.

“But don’t _ever_ try to go against a marine like that again. _Unarmed_.”

Ace felt Deuce’s grin pressing firm to his own, knowing that whatever he said fell on ears deaf to any pleas for his first mate’s safety. If Deuce would refuse to step back, then Ace would step up, guarding and protecting before Deuce could be given the chance to attempt to do the very same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current global situation is rough for everyone right now. I'm a key worker who can't go into isolation or stop going to work. Please practice good social distancing and stay safe, everyone ❤
> 
> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	25. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin" for AceDeuce.

The winter island had approached them seemingly from nowhere – or, rather, as Deuce had only pointed out twice during Ace’s dramatic excitement about the damn thing, _they _had approached _it_. Taking them by surprise completely and filling poor Mihar with rage usually only reserved for the messier of food fights, the Spade crew had bundled up in all the warm clothing that they could find as quickly as possible.

It was a quirky feature of the New World, this sudden changing of seasons or levels of insanity met in the currents of the sea. Just yesterday they had been basking in a pleasant late spring climate – Cornelia had got out the folding clothesline that she’d haggled for at a market some months ago, Kotatsu had made full use of the sunshine, snoozing away the hours on deck, and Skull had been seen dramatically slapping sunscreen onto his hairy forearms, yelling loudly for Mihar to lather up too. Not that Mihar _needed _sunscreen, he was quick to point out, seeing as he only left the confines of the ship when absolutely necessary (and sometimes not even then).

Everyone on board had awoken shivering, grumbling on pulling out their long-forgotten coats and scarves and whatever else they could find. Deuce, for perhaps the first time in the 14 months that Ace had known him, had actually buttoned up his usual coat and wound a long black scarf around his neck.

Of course, this didn’t include Ace. No. After their last stop at a winter island that had resulted in a drunken party with the Red Hair pirates, Ace had given up on his charade of needing thick clothing to combat the cold. His powers were enough, and once the crew had stopped bitching at him over breakfast for _being too naked _in his favorite yellow shirt, shorts, and little else, he’d taken it upon himself to take the first watch up in the crow’s nest.

The consensus was that, although he was captain and probably better off somewhere far more captainy, Ace could damn well sit up there in the freezing cold without a heater if he so pleased. Not like he’d notice it, not with how he raised his temperature accordingly and hummed to himself, spinning on his heels with his binoculars in hand.

He was, therefore, quite within his rights to be surprised when an arm flung itself over the side of the nest, dragging Deuce up with a wheeze. He hadn’t expected anyone to come see him, not at below freezing and a solid two hours before anyone was due to relieve him of his self-imposed duties.

“We,” Deuce panted, swinging a leg over the side and climbing over, “need to get some steps or something up here. I’m always _convinced _I’m gonna fall.”

Ace held out a hand to help Deuce steady himself, grinning. “Nice of you to join me,” he said cheerfully, meaning it. It was lonely work, being on watch, and Ace couldn’t say that he enjoyed the solitude when his mood didn’t demand that he seek it. “Did you bring anything to eat? I’m starving.”

There was fondness hidden below the irritated _tsk _that Deuce clicked at him, the quirk of a wry smile giving away that no, he wasn’t even the slightest bit bothered that Ace wanted feeding. Bringing out an offering of Banshee’s latest attempt at shortbread nestled in a battered tin, Deuce said, “she’s getting better at the recipe; it isn’t chewy anymore.” He frowned slightly. “Or, well, Skull’s finally making the effort to try and remember what the quantities of the ingredients are. He should know, seeing as it’s his hometown’s speciality.”

“Yeah, but,” Ace said, accepting the tin eagerly and pulling it open, “even so, he’s not really the baking type, is he? Surprised he could even remember what went into this. Banshee said it was really simple, too.”

Deuce nodded, shivering violently and huddling in on himself. As Ace munched away happily, absently raising his binoculars back to his eyes and trying to figure out if that was a gull in the water or the first sign of an iceberg, Deuce said, “are you _sure _you’re okay up here? It’s so cold. Just looking at you in nothing but a shirt is making _me _feel even more cold.”

That legendary signature smirk of Ace’s was at his lips before Deuce’s sentence had even fully been formed. “You weren’t complaining when I was completely naked in the cold earlier,” he pointed out, cramming more of the shortbread into his mouth and sprinkling crumbs all over the floor, “seemed qui’e ‘appy abou’ it, ac’ually,” he added thickly.

Deuce merely grimaced at the spray of shortbread that issued from his captain’s mouth. “Because you were in _bed_,” he said patiently, “you had a blanket wrapped around you—”

“I had _you _wrapped around me—”

“—and you weren’t parading around outside,” Deuce continued, skilfully ignoring that last comment, “looking like the poster child for a hypothermia prevention advert.”

Ace considered this for a moment, tilting his head to the side and frowning. “If I were the posterchild,” he said slowly, “wouldn’t that mean I’d be wrapped up in, like, five coats with the caption ‘Ace is smart, be like Ace’ stamped over my head?”

Deuce sighed, sagging with it like all of his energy had left him in one fell swoop. “No,” he said, “that’s not what I… Never mind.” When Ace shot him a quizzical look, Deuce merely shook his head with a fond smile and stepped in closer, rubbing his gloved hands together in an attempt to ward off the perpetual cold. “I didn’t just come up here to bring you food, by the way.”

That smile was inviting, the safe and homely type that made butterflies dance in Ace’s stomach. The type that pulled him toward Deuce like a magnetic force, had him leaning in to peck a kiss to his partner’s lips before moving into him, against him, and returning that same easy grin. “You gonna enlighten me?” He asked playfully, lamenting only briefly that Deuce had once again done up his coat and, sadly, prevented Ace from tucking his hands into it to paw at Deuce’s back and pull him in flush.

“My _real _objective,” Deuce said, dropping into something of a self-assured drawl, like he had a right to whatever it was that he wanted, “was to use you for warmth. That shitty heater in the mess hall’s broken again. I think – no, I _know_ – that Mihar tried to ‘improve’ it again and started touching things he doesn’t know how to fix.”

Ace could only snort, feigning incredulousness and slapping a hand to his bare chest in mock horror. “You came all the way up here to _use _me?” He gasped dramatically. “I’m _offended_, Deuce, totally offended.” However, contrary to his charade, Ace moved in closer still, reaching up and tucking his warm palms behind Deuce’s neck and mirroring his soft, lidded gaze. “What’m I gonna do with you, hm? How would you like me to warm you up?”

It was a testament to whatever control Deuce had over himself, the way in which he managed to refrain from saying something inappropriate and vulgar (like Ace definitely would have). Instead, he said quietly, “you could start with kissing me. That might help.”

“Worth trying, I guess,” Ace breathed, tilting his chin to fulfil Deuce’s request.

He was cold to the touch, lips chapped and dry from the freezing temperatures and utter lack of any kind of chapstick. Not that Ace minded in the slightest – not that Ace ever minded any variation of how Deuce felt against him. He soon got him warmed up, lips sliding slow and searching to Deuce’s in their gentle, unhurried pace. No need to rush anything, and no need to do much more than simply kiss until Deuce was satisfied – and wasn’t _that _a fun thought, Ace mused with a flicker of a smug smirk, because when did Deuce ever tire of this?

But then, without warning, and without having noticed Deuce doing anything other than reciprocate the kiss, Ace jumped and yelped at the feeling of Deuce’s bare, icy-cold hands tucking in between Ace’s shirt and his waist, seeking out the warmth of his back and settling there with a long, content sigh of relief from Deuce.

“When did you take your gloves off?!” Ace demanded with a laugh, wriggling under the touch. But when Deuce just shrugged and dipped his face to kiss Ace’s cheek, Ace added, “don’t _shrug_, Deuce, you’re freezing!”

“And you’re _so warm,_” Deuce sighed blissfully, running his fingers up Ace’s spine and eliciting a full-body shiver as a result, “warm and toasty. Really cozy.”

“You’re such an ass,” Ace chided, insincere.

“Yeah,” Deuce said dreamily, nuzzling into Ace’s neck and, probably, enjoying the warmth he found there too, “but you love this ass.”

Ace snorted a laugh. “You’re damn right I do.”

His powers worked their magic quickly enough, though, and before long Deuce’s hands no longer threatened to send Ace into uncontrollable shivers and shakes. Lips warmed by the Mera Mera dancing along to Ace’s undercurrent mouthed to his neck, the sensual press of them making Ace groan appreciatively in his throat.

“Does this mean,” Ace asked, twirling a strand of Deuce’s hair at the nape of his neck between his fingers, “that you’re gonna stay up here with me for my whole shift?” Deuce grunted indistinctly, which Ace took as a certain _yes_. “Good. You wanna cuddle up against the mast and listen to some stories about Luffy to pass the time?”

A puff of air tickled his neck as Deuce snorted through his nose, the outline of his smile felt clearly against his skin.

“Always.”

* * *

Bonus extra scene:

If they thought the day had been cold, then night-time came as a total shock. Nothing could have prepared the Spade pirates for the howling winds that ravaged the deck of the Spadille, bringing with it flurries of ice and temperatures that dropped so low that even Ace – yes, _Ace_, really – had to stay in his cabin, bundled up under his thickest blanket.

And, naturally, underneath his boyfriend.

As nice as it usually was to have Deuce completely naked and wrapped around him, under these circumstances it was actually rather tiresome. Not because Ace didn’t _enjoy_ having Deuce’s knees pinned to his hips, face buried in the crook of his neck, and the entire expanse of his lean, muscled back in prime position for stroking (and tickling), but because… well… Deuce simply would not stop _talking_.

Granted, it was because he was cold, even with Ace pressed against every inch of his body that he could reach, and thus couldn’t sleep, but as Ace had reminded him none too gently for the third time, just because Deuce couldn’t sleep didn’t mean that _Ace _couldn’t. If, of course, Deuce shut up for five minutes.

“Don’t ignore me,” Deuce protested thickly into Ace’s hair when he didn’t voice his amazement about some random fact that Deuce had recited, nose like a solid block of ice against his scalp, “I can’t _sleep_, it’s still so cold even with you being—well—_you_. Can’t you turn it up a little?”

“I’m not a heater,” Ace sighed, eyelids heavy and mind suitably drowsy, drumming his palms to Deuce’s back in a feeble attempt at getting him to comply and shut up, “if I ramp it up any more then you’ll just moan you’re too hot—”

“I won’t,” Deuce said quickly, raising his face and looking earnestly at Ace, maskless and alert despite the late hour, “honest. Try me. Raise it up a couple degrees.”

“Absolutely not,” Ace said at once, “_how _can you still be _cold _when I’m already running hotter than any normal human could survive? What’s wrong with you? Are you a lizard? Is that it?” He giggled when Deuce stuck his tongue out, doing the worst impression of a snake Ace had ever had the good fortune of witnessing.

Cold – icy, frostbite-inducing _cold_ – touched to the outsides of Ace’s calves without warning with all the freezing malice of winter rolled into two singular points. With a shriek of shock and a twist to try and get away from what he could only assume were Deuce’s fucking _feet_ pressing into his legs, Ace yelped, “not your feet! Holy _shit _Deu, what the hell! That’s not normal!”

“That’s better,” Deuce hummed happily, snuggling back down and apparently taking not an ounce of notice of how Ace was trying (albeit not very hard) to throw him off, “that feels _so nice_, Ace.”

“Yeah, for you,” Ace huffed with laughter, “put some damn socks on or something, this feels _awful_—”

Deuce hummed in consideration. “But then I’d need to get out of bed.”

“Then _get!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	26. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, ""What did you just say?" / "I said—" / "I lied, I heard you. Please don't say it."" for AceDeuce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the influx of AceDeuce stuff, I'm clearing out a backlog of prompts in my inbox and am obviously doing them in order of interest!
> 
> Also this is dumb as shit but there you go

Silence echoed throughout the room, seeming to permeate into their very skin like something fetid borrowing where it most definitely was not welcome. Neither spoke; neither moved. If a picture held a thousand words, then Ace was certain that a snapshot of himself at this very moment could spin a full-length novel of the type that Deuce favored.

Because he was in shock. That had to be it. This, what he was feeling, was definitely shock. His extremities – each finger, toe, hell, even his _nose_ – had gone cold. _Cold_. _Ace_. The man created of fire. Breath became inexplicably harder to draw. Fear raged, pulling his blood to pool in the center of himself to protect the vitals because he was under attack, he was in danger, _surely_.

This was not reality. This was _not_ reality. There was no conceivable way that this could be happening.

And yet when he licked his lips nervously he felt rough, dry skin wetted by warm tongue; felt the hard bump of teeth to soft flesh that recoiled from the freezing air hanging expectant between them.

His senses deceived him. Lying. Just like Deuce was.

“What,” he croaked, voice snapping the stillness like a gunshot crack to the back of a skull, “did you just say?”

Deuce had been perfectly clear when he had uttered the most foul, repugnant lie he had ever dared tell; mishearing him wasn’t the problem here. Stalling, he was, his brain working furiously to try and make sense of the situation. A dare? Unlikely; Deuce generally told the crew to fuck off if they tried to put him up to something he didn’t want to do, not to mention that Ace couldn’t imagine him to be _that _mean.

Although, all things considering, and considering that he had just said _that,_ maybe he was after all.

“I said—” Deuce began, voice strong, head held high, chin jutted out in defence as if inviting the challenge that Ace presented – as if he knew the precise, miserable goings-on and conclusion that had presented themselves within a fraction of his captain’s heartbeat.

“I know what you said,” Ace snapped, lip curling in disgust, “I heard you. Don’t say it again.”

But Deuce was his equal. Deuce was, and _deserved _to be, Ace’s equal within this crew, within their friendship. There was no issuing of orders between them. There was no control or enforcement of rank, position. There was only them… Them, and now _this_.

So when Deuce disregarded Ace’s snarled command, Ace couldn’t even begin to pretend that he was surprised that Deuce went against his direct order. “I _said_,” Deuce continued loudly, fists balled tight at his sides, jaw set, “that I’m in love with you.”

This wasn’t how a declaration of one’s feelings was supposed to go – Ace knew that much, at least. Having never done it, he didn’t have any evidence to really go by, but this felt all kinds of _wrong_. Something like this should have seen Deuce nervous, breathless, pink-cheeked and possibly stuttering. Not looking like he was walking into battle, death a certainty and failure assured.

“Bullshit,” Ace spat, cracking his knuckles in his lap and feeling decidedly cornered like a scummy little rat discovered among the grain, “there’s no way.” Yet that tiny, squashed down fraction of himself that he did try _so _hard to ignore and suffocate… well, it was _happy _that it was Deuce saying such wonderful things to him, even if they couldn’t possibly be true.

On thinking about it, about the absurdity of the lie, Ace laughed mirthlessly, cold and high. “You know what I am,” he barked, the sneer of hate refusing to relax from his freckled face, “you’re the _only one _on board this ship who knows what I am. You’re the only fucker who—” he cut himself off, dropping his gaze to the sheets he had begun to twist between his fingers. He couldn’t bring himself to say Roger’s name.

Trust Deuce to come do this privately, after dinner, when he knew full well the rest of their crew were enjoying their Friday night game of Whiskey Poker. His first mate had probably construed this to be a romantic gesture, the _fool_, waiting for the moment when Ace took himself to bed ahead of getting tired, knowing perfectly well his habit of requiring time alone without the noise.

And because Deuce _knew _about Ace – hell, just knew Ace full stop – this hurt. This cut deep. This had to be a joke of the most warped nature.

But Deuce didn’t laugh. Not that Deuce ever did tend to laugh when under pressure, like Skull did. Cry, yes. But never laugh.

“Exactly,” Deuce said, and Ace clicked his tongue in irritation. Exactly, what? “I don’t care about all of that stuff. I _don’t_,” he growled on Ace rolling his eyes with enormous emphasis, “ever since getting to know you – since we made the crew and since I pledged myself to you – I’ve fallen for you, the man in front of me, Portgas D. Ace and all of his weird and wonderful ways that make him individual and unique.”

“Do you _have _to be so fucking embarrassing about it,” Ace hissed, tugging harder at the sheets as he twisted, twisted, twisted, avoiding Deuce’s dark eyes, “getting all wordy and shit.”

“Yes, I do,” Deuce said levelly. He didn’t elaborate, though, and instead took to folding his arms and waiting for Ace to respond.

He had expected this kind of reaction, Ace could tell. Deuce didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the anger, nor did he seem keen on pushing Ace to speak before he was ready, not counting how he was clearly waiting, of course. The only trouble was, Ace had no idea how to respond outside of seething hatred for himself given voice. It wasn’t something that he had to explain – Deuce was well aware of Ace’s assumption that any and all affection directed at him was false and cruel.

Chancing a glance up at his best friend’s face, Ace was met not with annoyance, or impatience, or anything even remotely negative… Deuce was watching him with something akin to warmth, the kind of expression one might adopt when looking upon a loved one. Which, if this _wasn’t _a joke, and wasn’t the result of some sort of traumatic head injury on Deuce’s part, then…

“What?” Ace snapped before he could stop himself, skin prickling unpleasantly under that tender gaze. “I’m not in the mood for this, Deuce.”

He would never be in the mood to feel his hopes raise sickeningly like he was someone who was _allowed _to accept love offered to him by the only person he would ever consider reciprocating such feelings with. He hated it. He hated all of this. If he could tear his emotions from his heart and fling them into the ocean, then he damn well would have done.

“I’m not asking you to be.” He was being sincere, Ace could tell. That gentle look didn’t leave him. “I don’t want anything from you. I didn’t decide to tell you because I’m under some delusion that you’ll let yourself be loved. I just wanted you to know.”

What kind of nonsensical reasoning was that?

He sighed, stretching his arms up over his head, fingers interlaced to form a bridge, as Ace was left reeling all of a sudden. “Seriously,” Deuce added, catching Ace’s bemused expression, “I’m not looking for anything to come of this. I also don’t think I can convince you that I’m not fucking around. I’d show you all the shit I’ve written about you if I thought it’d make a difference, but I can’t see that it would.”

“Hold on,” Ace interjected, the turn of conversation thoroughly throwing him off metaphorical balance, “you’ve written about me?” Deuce nodded. “What? What kinda stuff?”

Deuce considered him for a moment, then said slowly, “the kind of stuff that would make you nauseous, knowing it was about you. Real sappy stuff.” God, how could he just _say _that so easily? Even hearing it made Ace recoil a little, although whether it was away from Deuce’s words or from his own treacherous spark of interest, he couldn’t tell. “Anyway, I’ll be on deck if you need me, and… I guess I’ll be on deck if you don’t, too.”

With that, Deuce turned on his heel and left, closing the door on the way out. Left Ace sitting quite alone, sheet so scrunched up in his fingers that he was honestly impressed it hadn’t ripped yet.

“That’s it?” He spoke to the empty room, amazed. “That’s _it?_” He repeated. “Even I know that’s not how you tell someone you’re in love with them!” He laughed, not out of cheer, but from sheer astonishment that Deuce could be so— so— so _Deuce _about something that should have been a magical, wonderful memory. For Deuce. Not for Ace. Of course not for Ace.


	27. Gen - Skull, Ace, Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Playing with their hair with their head in your lap prompt with Ace with literally anyone just... Ace trusting others and sleeping on them like a cat and whoever's saying "I can't get up and do my chores now, as you can see, I was chosen, I have a bigger purpose now.""

His moment had finally come.

At last.

_This was it._

Long had he waited for this chance; hours, days, weeks he had hoped, had dreamed, that somehow, somewhen, he might find himself favored by the gods and come to rest snug in the embrace of living fire, breathing flames. That he might, if fate turned her glory onto him, be granted the gift of all possibilities, the one true treasure to be found in life... nay, the One Piece itself, mayhaps.

He didn't dare move a muscle – moving posed risk of disrupting, of popping this fragile soap bubble of opportunity.

He daren't. He shan't.

And so his breath quivered from him in a long, low, measured whistle, unfurling in the cool air before him as vapor turned final wisp of control.

He daren't. _He shan't._

Yet his hand lifted regardless, trembling wretched in mid-air. He faltered, altered, redirected to cup his face between thumb and forefinger, mouth hidden in the web of skin. Oh, grant him mercy, he _wanted_ to touch his coveted treasure. He _so_ wanted to caress what lay across his lap, all shimmering golden skin and smatterings of freckles along cheeks, nose, gently rising chest—

"Are you gonna get up any time soon or what?"

Ah, he could have cursed the foolish first mate, the selfish traitor who would see fit to stopper his moment of wonder! He so dearly wished to fling something heavy at him for the volume of his voice, that sharp bark of a question that threatened to wake their slumbering captain in Skull's lap. Instead, Skull settled for a modest, highly respectful (honest!) middle finger thrust up into the air, earning an irked _tch_ in response.

"You can't sit in the middle of the deck all day," he was told. "Wake him up or carry him to bed – whichever you prefer. Just stop using Ace as an excuse to shirk your chores, Skull."

Shirk his chores?

Shirk? His chores?

Never! Abhorrent! Scandalous! Slander!

"I _can't_ get up," Skull murmured, voice but a low rumble in his chest. "I've been _chosen_."

Because when had this ever happened before? When, in all their time together as a tightly knit crew, had Ace ever before dropped down next to Skull, yawned widely, and settled comfortably upon his lap for a good, long snooze?

Oh, it was all very well for _Deuce _to not see the significance – no, _he _would regularly find himself with Ace draped over him, be it at meals, during meetings with himself and Mihal, on watch… It was perfectly normal for _him _to be the object of Ace’s affections and naps.

“So you’re going to ignore washing up duty,” the corners of Deuce’s mouth twitched as if he was willing himself not to grin that smug grin of his, “again.”

Oh. Right. _That’s _what he meant by chores.

“Cut me some slack here,” Skull pleaded, changing his tactics at the speed of light and attempting to appeal to Deuce’s better nature – the one that he held at his core, all soft and sweet and usually only reserved for Ace, most annoyingly, “he _never _chooses me, Master Deu, and—” he chanced it; didn’t really think about it; was moving his accursed hand before his brain had the chance to catch up, running his fingers through his captain’s thick hair. Ace, thankfully, slept on, curling in that little bit tighter in on himself, rubbing his cheek to Skull’s thigh in a manner most reminiscent of Kotatsu’s naptime behavior.

Speaking was suddenly painfully difficult. His mouth formed the words, but no sound escaped him, suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed as he was. His heart, usually still and calm within his breast, felt like it was on the verge of bursting from swelling so rapidly. Love like none other – love like that of a parent, he vaguely supposed – welled up, choked, stoppered his thought process the very instant Ace huffed a happy little exhale, tucking his fist in under his chin.

Oh, what _had _he done to deserve this? This sweet boy? This honor to be able to pet his hair and know without fail that Ace slept so peacefully because he felt _safe_ with Skull?

He looked up at Deuce, tears welling in his eyes – tears of that overwhelming urge to scoop Ace up in his arms, cuddle him in close, and promise him that nothing in this cruel world would ever hurt him again. Maybe plant a big wet kiss on his forehead while he was at it.

The sad thing was that Deuce did not seem to share – or understand – this desire of Skull’s even remotely. If anything, he looked to Skull as if the one and only thing his heart craved was for Skull to pick his ass up from the floor and go and scrub the ungodly stack of plates that was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“He’s so damn cute,” Skull tried, knowing that if anything could convince Deuce, it was highlighting Ace’s charms – Deuce did, after all, care about Ace every bit as much as Skull did, only in ways that didn’t include that paternal call to baby the boy, “look at him, isn’t he sweet when he sleeps? I just wanna pinch his lil cheeks and tell him he’s the loveliest boy in the whole world.”

It didn’t work. Judging by Deuce’s expression, pinching Ace’s cheeks and making goo-goo noises at him were not included in his afternoon schedule.

“Please, Master Deu,” Skull whimpered, holding Ace by the shoulder almost protectively, “don’t make me wake him up. Let me have this moment, there’s a good lad.”

Deuce seemed to consider this, sighing heavily through his nose.

“No one else is gonna pick up your chores, y’know.”

Skull did his absolute best to look affronted. “I wouldn’t want them to!” he lied easily, resuming petting Ace’s hair.

A pause; another sigh.

“I suppose this _is _good for him,” Deuce relented, looking far too fondly at their captain, “seeing as he never likes to let his guard down.”

“Right?” Skull agreed enthusiastically. “That’s exactly it – this is for his benefit, not mine.”

“Of course it is.”

Skull beamed up at Deuce. “Wonder how long it’ll take for _you _to come looking for a cuddle from ol’ Skull,” he chortled, enjoying how Deuce’s carefully constructed façade of cool shattered instantly, leaving him spluttering and blushing. “You’re _both _my boys,” he said far more softly, tucking Ace’s hair behind his ear, the backs of his fingers brushing light to warm cheek, “ol’ Skull loves his boys with his whole heart, he does. You two make me wish I’d been a dad.”

“Skull, that’s—”

He looked back up to Deuce, grin wide and toothy. “You think Master Ace would call me Daddy if I asked him?”

That, Skull was pleased to find, got Deuce to leave him alone to enjoy his cuddle with his captain.


	28. Marco/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person"

“What’s up with you?”

Marco looked up from where his chin rested atop his folded arms, a pronounced shiver running up his spine at the sight that greeted him. The flush of irritation that followed clapping eyes on Ace – what with the snow melting on contact with his bare shoulders, his enormous grin, the whole picture – was not welcome, and did indeed make Marco look away just a touch too quickly.

He did not enjoy winter islands; it was no secret. The biting chill; the uncomfortable yet entirely necessary need to have not one, but two coats zipped up tight around a thick, woollen scarf of Thatch’s terrible design; all of it was a recipe for a shitty mood to rise in their first division commander.

So witnessing Ace – young, stupid, _look at me I’m made of fire _Ace – parade around in nothing more than a pair of shorts made Marco’s already foul mood dip further down into the icy depths way, way below the deck of the Moby.

It was the soft _oof _of someone walking straight into Ace’s back that had Marco looking up just in time to catch Thatch bumping into their newest addition to the crew.

“Don’t pay him no mind, Ace,” Thatch said, laughter simmering under his words, “Marco’s not really, uh, the type to fair well in winter climates. He’s more of a tropical bird,” Thatch added with a smirk when Ace looked up at him questioningly, “gets all miserable when the temperature drops more than a handful of degrees.”

“Are you?” Ace asked, interested, leaning in closer to Marco and bringing with him a blessed wave of _warmth_. “Are all phoenixes tropical birds?”

Marco snorted, no capacity to indulge silly questions. _All phoenixes_. Really. He was the _only _phoenix, as far as any of them were aware, and Ace knew that.

“Yup,” Thatch said, sounding almost pleased with Marco’s less than polite response, “like I said – _miserable_. Hey, maybe you should spend the day hanging off his arm, Ace, and keep him warm.”

The thought of this made Marco perk up a little, looking at Ace far more hopefully than he dared acknowledge and would later deny—

But—

Ace laughed brightly, extinguishing that infant flicker of hope. “My division’s got me booked already,” he said happily, catching sight of a couple of them further up the deck and giving them a hearty wave, “I dunno if you’ll be able to squeeze in around them, unfortunately… Deuce and Skull already said they’re gonna try – they said they have a right to my body heat, whatever that’s supposed to mean—"

“They’re not used to having to share their personal heater with hundreds of others,” Thatch pointed out fairly, earning a nonchalant shrug from Ace.

“Anyway, c’mon!” Ace said far too cheerfully, clapping Marco on the shoulder and jolting him uncomfortably into the railing. That warm hand snaked round to clasp him and pull him in closer, perfectly dividing Marco’s desires between stalking away to childishly sulk alone, and unashamedly cuddling up closer to the warmth—“It’s not _that _bad, it’s only a bit of snow!”

“Easy for you to say,” Marco sighed, nodding to Thatch as he left them to it, “you only suffer in the summer temperatures.”

Ace dismissed this with an impatient wave of his free hand. “Details,” he said airily. “Would you cheer up if I warmed you up right now?”

Yes, he would. If Ace could raise his temperature even moderately, Marco would be a far happier man, no doubt about it.

“Please,” Marco almost whined in defeat, looking imploringly at Ace’s winning smile, “at this point, I won’t even care if you set me on fire – actually, if you could _accidentally _torch this ugly scarf of Thatch’s, that’d be perfect.”

With a bark of a laugh, Ace leaned in closer still, bringing that tingling heat right along with him – Marco could feel it on his face, the only part of him that wasn’t covered in every piece of winter clothing he could source (he had forgone dignity and rammed Haruta’s green bobble hat on his head, of all things. Not that he was dramatic in the cold).

“Thatch made that for you out of love,” Ace chided, giving the scarf a little tug, “you can’t ask me to destroy it.”

“It looks more like a stretched sock than a scarf,” Marco huffed, slapping a gloved hand over the top of Ace’s at his chest; his heat permeated the thick layer, and Marco had to wonder if Ace was deliberately working to raise his temperature right now.

Ace shrugged again and said, “close your eyes for a sec and I’ll make you nice and toasty.”

With a sigh of resignation Marco complied, not seeing how doing so could possibly help Ace in doing… whatever he planned on doing to warm him up. If Ace was just going to fuck around, then Marco would make sure that he regretted it and paid dearly for further pissing him off.

And then…

Warm, soft lips pressed snug to his own, instantly flooding his senses with heat and shock. With a flutter of lashes Marco’s eyes flew open in surprise, drinking in the sight of Ace pressed against him. The hand at his scarf pulled him back in when Marco instinctively tried to step away, mind instantly numbed and cheeks heating up hot enough to rival even Ace’s suddenly suffocating wave upon wave of fierce heat.

His coats were suddenly sticking to him; his scarf, though pulling tighter in Ace’s hold, was abruptly too itchy around his neck, the material scratchy and prickly, too tight, too _close. _His brow, feverish, beaded with sweat as Marco tentatively leaned into the kiss just a little, just _enough_, just on the cusp of breaking through the fog in his mind to attempt to reciprocate—

Which saw Ace breaking away with a small gasp, looking thoroughly proud of himself. He snickered at what Marco assumed had to be a distinctly bewildered expression that he was pulling, and, smug grin refusing to drop, turned on his heel and started to leave.

Just like that.

“H-Hang on a second!” Marco almost shouted, coming to his senses so swiftly he was on the verge of writing the last few seconds off as a damn _dream _or something. “What the hell was that? Ace? What the _hell _did you do that for?”

Ace twirled on the spot, grinning, _satisfied_, hands coming to rest on his hips in a completely out of place and unconcerned manner.

“Worked, didn’t it?” He said, _smug_.

“Worked?” Marco repeated, acutely aware of how his cheeks were _blazing _right now, probably turning him cherry red and clashing hideously with Haruta’s violently green hat. “What _worked?”_

Ace nodded at him, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re warm now,” he said in a matter of fact tone, “aren’t you? So it worked.”

Mouthing wordlessly at Ace’s back was all that Marco could manage for a hot second, grappling wildly for something intelligent and mature to say. When this failed him, though, Marco instead settled on a useless, pathetic little grunt of, “yeah, it worked.” Much to his horror, Ace appeared to hear this, as he giggled to himself as he trotted off to catch up with Thatch.

“Lemme know if you need warming up again!” Ace trilled over his shoulder.

Marco’s forehead hit his palms with a muffled, horrified moan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	29. Gen - Ace, Deuce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, “I’m really happy that you’re here with me.”

Music reverberated throughout the cobbled streets, the pipes and whistles spinning the most lively of tunes above the tinny chorus of drums. A tamborine rattled in the hand of one of the street performers, the beads strewn around their ankles accenting the bright melody with learned, precise steps that shimmered in dizzying stripes. When the song changed note – when it pitched up into a jauntier, quicker step without any of the troupe so much as glancing at one another, their craft learned and definite as spoken language – even the most resolutely immobile of the audience found themselves tapping their toes to the tune, bodies naturally swaying in time with the crackle of adrenaline that shook the very air.

And the two pirates in their midst were no more exempt from its insatiable pull as any other person for as far as the eye could see.

“Isn’t this great?” Ace asked, dancing along on the spot, drink in hand, a string of brightly colored flowers swaying around his neck where one of the children of the performing troupe had thrown it over his head. “I’ve never heard this sort of music before!”

Deuce, Ace was thrilled to see on looking round from the weaving, twirling pipe players at the front of the little band, looked… well, he looked bewildered, but in the good sort of way. Like an animal raised only for meat learning what the sun felt like after a life of captivity, Ace supposed, or – more fittingly – like a man who had never in his whole life seen, felt, _tasted_ the sheer energy of live street music before.

His eyes shone with near disbelieving excitement when he reluctantly tore them away from the musicians, bearing a grin so bright it almost dazzled as bright as the lanterns strung criss–crossing overhead.

“They’re fantastic!” Deuce cried over the merry tune, the people jostling around them singing made up words to the rhythm, all clutching their paper cups of heady meads and wines that Ace had never even seen before. “This whole thing’s just—” he gestured hopelessly, completely at a loss as to how to describe what he was experiencing, “it’s so much _fun!”_

It was sort of endearing how that statement left him with the slight upturn of a question.

“Right?” Ace encouraged, downing the rest of his drink to throw the cup over Deuce’s head, landing it perfectly in the trash can behind him, “have you ever been to a festival before?”

The question didn’t need asking, but still it came like Ace was hoping his assumptions were wrong.

They weren’t.

“Never!” Deuce exclaimed, his pink flush of delight high in his cheeks, his matching necklace of enormous, lurid flowers twining between his fingers where he fidgeted absently with them. “I’ve been to piano recitals and opera—” he looked momentarily disgusted, like he had something bitter on his tongue when recalling a life long left behind, “—but they were never like _this_.”

And Deuce was, Ace noticed with a surge of joy, not immune to the vibrancy of the music either. Though not as openly enthusiastic as some of their fellow festival-goers – the most notable of whom were twirling their partners, performing their own local quicksteps, or otherwise dancing away like there was no one in the world who could judge them – Deuce was _dancing_. He was bobbing along to the pipes, the underlying thrum of the drums, the tinkle of bells and clink of tamborines, seemingly unaware that he was doing so and, what was even better, he looked _happy_. Completely and totally enraptured; mesmerised and captivated by what Ace had pulled him into against protests and refusals that he _couldn’t_, he _wouldn’t_.

“Are you having fun?” Ace asked, twirling his garland around in his fingers also, suddenly finding it difficult to meet Deuce’s eyes.

“Are you kidding?” Deuce laughed, and—Ace’s smile faltered as his hand was taken in Deuce’s gloved one, lifted away from the violently orange flower he had been acutely interested in all of a sudden, “this is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life!”

Ace’s mouth seemed too dry, the sincerity of Deuce’s words and bright, genuine smile shocking him in the best of ways imaginable. He wished he hadn’t finished his drink already, but couldn’t bring himself to look away and scour the crowd for the girl with the tray of drinks balanced on her palm.

“Thank you so much for making me come here tonight,” Deuce continued, his on–the–spot jig as infectious as his brilliant fascination with the festival, “I’ll never, _ever_ doubt you again when you say I’ll like something, I swear—”

“I wouldn’t trust me _that_ blindly,” Ace began, grinning back at his friend, but Deuce seemed to not hear him.

“And I’m really, _really_ happy that you’re here with me!” Deuce continued, gripping Ace’s hand tighter; whether he noticed that Ace’s body temperature shot up at his words was anyone’s guess, but if he did notice, he certainly didn’t give any indication that he had. “I would have _never_ thought of joining in with a festival if I was on my own! I’d have never done _this_—” he indicated to his string of flowers, to himself as a whole, swaying along with the music, his own cup wrinkled where he gripped it tightly, “I’d be sat somewhere way off on the side-lines, writing about the people having the times of their lives instead of actually living it!”

“Oh,” Ace said uselessly, stumped, convinced that the color of his own cheeks now had to rival Deuce’s excited flush, his heart thumping in his ears, “you’re, uh— you’re welcome, Deu, no problem…”

“You,” Deuce said a little breathlessly, stepping in closer as the crowd around them broke into a ringing symphony of applause for the troupe, their song having come to a close, “make me want to live my life rather than document it, Ace. I can’t thank you enough for that.” When Ace didn’t respond – when Ace could only stare into Deuce’s dark, glittering eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lanterns and open his mouth uselessly – Deuce seemed to register what he had just said, cleared his throat, and dropped Ace’s hand, looking slightly embarrassed. “Which is, y’know,” he said in a forced would–be–casual tone, “loads better for the authenticity of my book, obviously.”

“Yeah,” Ace said, a little dazed, “obviously…”

The audience boomed their delight as the next song ramped up its opening beats, the pipers and drummers doubling down for a number that sounded like it was going to be even more upbeat and breath-taking than the one that had got Deuce, of all people, to dance.

With a little shake of his head as if to mentally move on from the awkward moment, Deuce knocked back the rest of his drink and copied Ace in throwing it into the trash.

He nodded firmly to himself as if settling on a decision, then, holding out his hand to Ace again, Deuce had to yell over the din of the cheers from the crowd, “will you dance with me? Properly?”

It was like the air was knocked straight out of Ace’s lungs with a well-placed punch to the gut.

“Me?” Ace asked stupidly, stalling.

Deuce nodded vigorously. “I don’t know the steps, though,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly, “so I might make us look like a pair of fools, but—”

“You won’t,” Ace said quickly, grabbing Deuce’s proffered hand, “you really won’t. There aren’t any steps to a song like this – you sorta just _feel_ it, kinda like what you’re already doing—”

“So… you wanna?”

“I _so_ wanna,” Ace nodded fervently, grinning broadly to dispel whatever nerves had suddenly arisen in Deuce, “c’mon, let’s get closer to the front!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	30. Gen - Kotatsu, Thatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the tumblr prompt, "Oh may you please do #7. “Look at you… Goodness, you’re so cute.”"

“Oh.”

The little exclamation pulls Kotatsu’s attention away from his dinner of hard-won kitty food, his tongue poking out to catch the fleck of meat that delicately balances on his whiskers. He had been waiting for _hours _for Skull to feed him – he still doesn’t understand how much _plainer _he can make himself that screeching a grumpy meow means he would like dinner _now_, please, Skull – so this interruption came as an unwelcome surprise.

Yet when Kotatsu looks up it is not into the face of anyone he is yet familiar with on this ship. It is not Ace, nor Deuce, nor any of the rest of the Spade crew that Kotatsu had come to love as his bizarre yet brilliant family, and it is not Whitebeard, the huge, hulking mountain of a captain of this crew.

The man squatting down beside him, goatee’d chin in palms and elbows resting on knees, has a funny hairstyle, Kotatsu thinks. Under the funny hairstyle sparkle hazel eyes that shine with what Kotatsu naturally attributes to that intense feeling that accompanies a ball being rolled across the deck for him. This man’s interest is piqued, and he wants to pounce, but for the life of him Kotatsu can’t fathom why. No people ever want his food – if given the choice, Kotatsu himself would much prefer _their _food, too – so that can’t be why the man is looking at him like he’s a particularly pungent crop of catnip.

“Oh,_ wow_,” the man breathes, smiling a wide, kindly sort of smile that lessens the nerves that had caused Kotatsu’s back to stiffen, his muscles to tremble in anticipation of either fight or flight, “just look at you, kitty-kitty. You’re so _cute_.”

The change in Kotatsu is immediate, and he is definitely not at fault.

A snarl spits from him like acid, his lip curling, hackles raising, claws poking out to defend what this man threatens to steal. His honor is in jeopardy, his good name as the terrifying, ferocious lynx of the Spade crew is in danger, and Kotatsu will _not _sink so low as to let some random man with a silly hairstyle debase him down to an insult like _cute_.

“Can I pet you?” The man asks, his voice positively quivering with the effort of withholding from doing so, Kotatsu guesses… although _why _the man wants to right now is a mystery. Ah! He isn’t being scary enough, that has to be it! “Oh dear,” the man’s expression crumples a little, though not fully, not defeated, as Kotatsu emits a low growl, “I’m guessing that’s a no?”

It’s not… _exactly _a no, no. Kotatsu knows full well that this spectacular display of his scary side wouldn’t do anything more than raise a laugh and a ruffle of his fur from his old crew, his cover-up one that they are accustomed to and even find endearing… but this man shouldn’t know that. Unless he’s been talking to Ace about him. Oh, no, _please _don’t say this man has learned everything there is to know about him…!

With a heavy sigh through his nose, Kotatsu sits firmly between the man and his dinner, long tail swishing and thumping to the floorboards in his most menacing manner he can muster. Yet the man doesn’t look deterred, and Kotatsu can’t work out why. It’s bothering him, that little smile is, because it is confident and compelling all in one thin-lipped line.

“Please forgive my rudeness,” the man says softly, “I didn’t mean to insult you by calling you cute. Let’s start again, shall we? My name’s Thatch and I’m the head chef of this crew. Rumor has it that one of the members of the former Spades _really _likes grilled fish—” Kotatsu’s ears pricked up against his will, nose dilating with a rush of anticipation for the mere _mention _of his most favorite, his most craved meal ever—“and so I was really hoping you’d be able to help me track down whoever it is, ‘cause I’m about to go cook up a storm.” The man – Thatch – grins at him despite how he is now definitely drooling all over the floor.

_It’s me! _Kotatsu desperately wants to yowl, _it’s me! That’s _my _favorite meal!_

But pride holds his tongue fast, forcing him to swallow thickly through the copious amounts of saliva he’s embarrassingly producing. He wouldn’t think less of Thatch if he were to sneer in disgust, but the man doesn’t, and he instead beams a sunny smile at Kotatsu.

“How about this,” Thatch offers after a moment’s pause in which Kotatsu absolutely did not violently fantasize about galloping to the kitchens and munching his way through the fleet’s supply of fish, “while I try to figure out who it is, would you come with me and be my taste tester? I usually ask Ace these days, but I can’t find him at the moment, so if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind helping me?”

Ace was on deck, drunk, in Deuce’s lap with an arm around his neck, tankard tipping precariously close to spilling all over the both of them… or at least he had been when Kotatsu had left him to go in search of another friend he could rely on to fill his moaning belly.

To Kotatsu, it seems only a little strange that Thatch wouldn’t be aware of this, given how Ace had been successfully attracting a huge amount of attention with his inebriated singing, but who is he to care when the promise of fish is right there?

So he stands, and he purrs, and he practically bounces on the spot when Thatch rises heavily to his feet.

“You’ll be my tester?” Thatch asks, and Kotatsu can’t be believe that he even has to. He nods and butts his face into Thatch’s thigh with a deep, rolling purr, and Thatch is blessedly at least _this _well versed in the subtle art that is cat language. “Great!” He claps his hands together in triumph. “Onward to the kitchen we go!”

A hand touches gently to the top of his head, and Kotatsu looks up into those sparkling hazel eyes once again. He leans into the touch, encouraging it, because how bad can a man really be if he’s willing to let Kotatsu into the kitchen and run free with the fish?


	31. Gen - Ace, Sabo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Ace is admiring Deuce from across the room. A friend whispers to Ace's ear: 'Why are you so thirsty?'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pyrexia!verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846261) in which Ace has a thing for junior doctor Deuce, having met him while Roger is in hospital.

“Ace,” Sabo muttered, clutching his food tray a little tighter as he leaned in over the babble of the hospital canteen, “close your mouth. You’re gonna start drooling any second now.”

It took a second to process what Sabo was saying, but when his brother’s insult filtered through the wall of distraction and successfully turned Ace’s head away from the separate line for the salad bar, it still took a moment to fully catch up.

“Huh?” Ace grunted distractedly, frowning at Sabo’s smirk. “I’m not drooling.”

“If you keep staring at that doctor over there for much longer, you will be,” Sabo smirked in retaliation to Ace’s frown, satisfied with himself. “Seriously, Ace, why’re you so thirsty for him? It’s embarrassing.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Ace snapped at once, feeling his cheeks heating up in an act of utmost betrayal, “like you didn’t use every excuse under the sun to stare after Koala whenever you saw her before you got together.”

Ignoring this with practiced ease, Sabo hummed. The sparkle in his eyes was not one that filled Ace with anything resembling comfort.

“He’s not even _that _good looking,” Sabo said mildly, his gaze roving pointedly from Deuce’s feet to face from the other side of the canteen, the poor junior doctor entirely unaware that he was being assessed with such scrutiny as he gave his order to the smiling server, “you never used to have such poor taste.”

“He’s fine,” Ace retorted, chancing a glance at Deuce and regretting it instantly – Deuce had chosen that exact moment to smile back at the lady, his nose wrinkling in an awfully adorable fashion which did _not _help Ace’s standing whatsoever. “And it’s not all about looks, is it? Looks are superficial and all that.” Sabo snorted, and Ace added an irritated, “shut _up_, you jerk,” for good measure.

“Like I said,” Sabo chimed, turning on his heel as the line moved, fixing Ace with the single most infuriating grin that spoke leagues of Sabo’s own self-assurance in the matter, “you’re _thirsting _for him. Does he know? Oh, _please _tell me he doesn’t know. Can I go introduce myself? I promise I’ll be suave and cool.”

“You wouldn’t know _suave_ if it gut-punched you into next week,” Ace growled, jabbing Sabo in the side with his tray. “Don’t you _dare _say anything to him, ‘Bo, or I swear I’ll—”

“Carry on lusting after him in secret and never say anything?” Sabo interrupted, poking Ace back with his own tray, smug grin firmly in place. “Nope nope nope – you’ve been single for too long, sweet brother, if you don’t say something then I will—”

“Nothing can happen!” Ace hissed, avoiding the inquisitive eyes of the surgeon queuing in front of them. “Doctors aren’t allowed to date patients… _or _family members of patients,” he added quickly, seeing the question rising in Sabo, “he’d risk his job for no good reason—”

“Yeah,” Sabo cut across airily, looking pointedly over his shoulder back at Deuce, eyes following his back as he went to sit at a table almost full of young-looking doctors in blue or mint green scrubs, “but Roger’s not gonna be a patient forever, is he? The countdown has begun, dear bro-bro, and then the moment Roger’s packed away in your car, you can go pack yourself and that doctor away into a closet and get down to business.”

The toe of Ace’s shoe connected sharply with the back of Sabo’s right knee, almost flooring him into a crumpled heap. Instead Sabo stumbled, grabbing at Ace’s sleeve with a laugh, and knocked into the suddenly very angry surgeon in front of them.

Five minutes later they were seated and happily back to abusing each other over what Ace should do about Deuce the junior doctor… although the surgeon’s sharp threat of going to inform Deuce of their discussion herself to settle the matter would not stop ringing in Ace’s pink-tipped ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	32. Shanks/Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Shanksmarco— learning".

Where did one draw the line between healthy fascination, and reverence that transformed the revered into not a man, but something more akin to a deity?

This was not a question that often surfaced in the young mind of the red-haired pirate.

There was always something new to discover in the man called Marco.

First came the typical; the usual; the things one learns through general observation accompanied by the occasional glance of honed intention.

Mundane. Commonplace.

Marco was right-handed. Marco liked to read. Marco was friendly. Marco could turn into a sparkling blue phoenix and fly away when Shanks tried to climb on his back.

All scored in intricate detail into the mind of a young boy who admired and near enough worshiped.

Next came the dermis on peeling back the epidermis of Marco – exposing the next layer to a mind seeking to, above all, learn the makeup of he who had become coveted not unlike a deity.

The urge to learn – the desire to _know _his chosen subject above and beyond any definition of _normal _drew out of Shanks the habit of watching. Observing. Quietly setting himself off to the side-lines of the most prolific, raucous of crews, eyes bright and mind brighter still under cyan and golden flames dancing cold to skin that burned for him.

Second layer; more individual. Something closer to the core of the man that held Shanks’ attention unlike anything else he had ever known.

Marco was not as cheerful as he liked to appear. Marco believed in himself to extremes that he did not openly demonstrate. Marco could – and would, and _had_ – kill someone in cold blood, deaf to the symphony of pleas for mercy.

The third layer – the meshing of fat through nerves, blood vessels, sweat and something lacking in all _human _qualities – took many years to finally find himself privy to examining. The extent, the range, the enormity of the depths of Marco’s tightly laced and highly guarded soul; they all unveiled themselves with time.

With effort.

With Shanks committing all of himself to his subject through subtlety and utmost diligence. A clever word here; a well-placed quirk of a smile to unsettle an otherwise haughty glare, revealing to Shanks what remained a mystery to others. A chance gifted through a random _(random?)_ meeting; a talk that transcended mere phatic nonsense and delved, wine-soaked _(yet sober, he’s sober, he’ll take this and remember),_ into the pits of the person and not of the projection.

The hydrodermis exposed most all—

Marco loved beyond measure and to heights to which there were no limits. A self-sacrificing fool, but only for those that he considered _worthy. _Marco never forgot; Marco never forgave. Marco’s internal sense of justice was that of Shanks’, though skewed as though viewed through warped glass.

—but the gentle brush of a bedsheet to lift away and exhibit the barest, innermost workings saw to Marco readily _(unwittingly?) _teaching Shanks of his core; of his heart—through love unparalleled, gained through the arch of a spine and clawing of talons to bed and to back.

And the final layer – the last part of the phoenix for Shanks to understand throughout and lave care upon through touches that failed to connect—

Revealed that Marco – immortal, untouchable, infallible—

—was running terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	33. Gen - Sanji, Sabo (implied/almost Ace/Sanji)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Any pairing, but the first line must be "How did your date go?" and the last line must be "That bad, huh?""

“So, how did your date go?”

The fridge almost toppled over with the force of its door being slammed shut.

“How do you _think _it went?” Sanji snarled at his roommate, Sabo, sitting there at the kitchen counter with his chin in his palm and looking all expectant and _so damn pleased _like this wasn’t anything to do with him. “I’m back home before 9 – what does that tell you?”

Sabo frowned as if this were a trick question. “That you cut to the chase and showed Ace the time of his life in the restaurant’s parking lot?”

Always so crude and disgusting, wasn’t he? Not unlike his Neanderthal of a brother that Sanji had now had the displeasure of not only meeting, but dating.

“No, idiot.”

And using the term _dating _was a very loose one indeed – in fact, by Sanji’s standards, the evening had been more in line with what he might rule as a total and utter waste of a rare night off. There had been nothing date-like about that fiasco.

Why? Because—

“He bolted his food, got up, bowed to me, and then left.” Sanji paused. Sabo didn’t say a thing. Sanji continued. “Did he pay? No. No, Sabo, he did not. Ace left the bill to me and he wandered right off after thanking me for a _great meal_.” Sanji desperately wished he was joking about this – and judging by the incredulous expression that had slapped itself to Sabo’s face, he was under the impression that Sanji was in the mood to exaggerate. “This is the last time I let you set me up with anyone.”

“Whoa, hey, don’t blame me!” Sabo laughed his defence, sitting a little more upright as Sanji popped the cap off his beer.

“He’s _your _relative,” Sanji snapped before Sabo could even _think _of trying to defend Ace’s behavior – Ace, _perfect_ Ace, as Sabo would no doubt try to insist that he was, because Sabo was such a fool when it came to his two half-brothers and their weird and wonderful ways, “of course I’m gonna blame you.”

“Okay, fine,” Sabo sighed, though he didn’t quail under Sanji’s furious glare, “look, just—just break it down for me. He can’t have literally just eaten and then run off.”

“Okay,” was Sanji’s falsely cheerful snap, settling into the bar stool on the other side of the kitchen counter, “sure, I’ll break it down for you.” He took a long pull from his beer bottle before setting it only slightly too hard to the counter, taking a nasty pleasure in Sabo’s wince. “Let’s start with how your lovely brother first ordered before I had even got there. When I arrived, he had already finished his appetizer, saying he had been bullied into ordering by the waiting staff – which is nonsense. He was polite and good company, yeah, I’ll give him that, but when the mains arrived, he ate like he was a wild dog who hadn’t seen food for a week. I was speechless. The waiter was speechless. Sabo, I don’t think he even _breathed _in between bites.”

It was a little worrying how Sabo just looked at Sanji like this wasn’t the kind of behavior that one might not find appealing in a dining partner.

“Did he even know it was a date?” Sanji asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “Did you bother to tell him that the reason why he was meeting up with one of his brothers’ roommates was for a date? For potential romance to ensue, maybe a kiss, maybe exchanging numbers?”

Sabo gave Sanji a blank look that spoke volumes into the silence.

“Right.” Sanji sighed. “Of course he didn’t. Why would you think of telling him a minor detail like that.”

“It should be obvious!” Sabo said, clearly hurt. “If I was asked out like he was, I would assume it was a date!”

“Then next time, spare me the humiliation and take his place,” Sanji said, tapping the bottle to his lips, “we’ll have a date without the sex. Candles and everything.”

Sabo snorted. “What’s the point of that?”

“You really are something, aren’t you?”

“Anyway,” Sabo rolled his eyes at the dig, “keep going. What happened after he disgusted you so badly?”

The bottle was drained in one large mouthful before Sanji could carry on.

“Laughed with food in his mouth,” he said, as if this were the most heinous of crimes, “didn’t talk about himself and spent the entire time rambling on about Luffy who, yeah, thanks, Ace, I am very familiar with. Didn’t ask me anything personal, either. And then, as I said, when the bill was put on the table he quite literally – and I’m not making this up, Sabo – he got up, _bowed_, thanked me for a fun night, and then left. He _left_. Me. With the bill.”

And Sanji was absolutely going to get Ace’s address and make sure he paid for his half of the meal. Yes, he could be that petty when required.

“Hm.” Sabo looked distinctly uncomfortable now, and for that, Sanji was thoroughly and vindictively pleased. “That bad, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to fill [my Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) inbox with prompts, nonsense, or anything at all! I love to chat TT
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	34. Gen - Ace, Deuce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trial, of sorts, for imagery. Practice piece. 
> 
> Ace isn't dead; he's unconscious. They'll both be alright :)

This was Hell.

This was Hell, and he was here, experiencing what would have done well to remain lost in text, subverted to myth, and laughed-away ghosts of tall tales.

Mortal body fighting on the brink of life; immortal soul – the soul of the lover, strung among the stars, snared by the ankle and dragged down to bear witness to the desecration of the half of himself that was not for the Devil’s taking.

Along fingertips stained brilliantly – violently – crimson, he reached. Nerves fluttering, assaulted by brutal impact of rain that poured on command of fate herself, certainly, his vision swam through clarity and fog. It _hurt_. The rain to his tattered skin _tore_ what little of him there was left.

It didn’t stop him.

Nothing would ever stop him from taking his hand.

Warmth met him on contact; warmth that indicated precisely nothing of worth. Life? He couldn’t be sure. Devil Fruit? Yes, without a doubt. Thus, life, reasonably.

_Reasonably?_ No; putridly optimistically.

Through bubbled-up blood soaked in the cold bile of regret, Deuce felt his heart spark with feeble, wretched hope against the mud.

Vision receded further; feeling slipped from him to join the puddles around them, swirling thick and mocking his numbed desperation. Oh, how he wished to sink through that warm skin and caress Ace’s core; heal from within; stop the pain and stem the flood of poppy petals that cascaded from lacerations on both.

They had failed.

Dress it up as he might – and he _might_, if they survived, if they pulled through, if somehow, please, _God, _let him wake up – Deuce couldn’t accept anything outside of the bleak truth that this had gone so wrong.

“Ace,” he whispered to dirt and shame both, to all that would accept him now there, on the floor, spattered and tattered beyond what should be recognizable of the first mate turned lover of Captain, “_Ace_, wake up.”

But kindness came cheap to those who didn’t deserve. Kindness cared not for the loved, the warmth, the breaking open of a man to save what mattered more than hope and peace.

Kindness did not grace him, but instead scorned him.

For Ace didn’t move; didn’t demonstrate any signs of hearing him, feeling him, knowing his ever-faithful partner lay wounded beside where he faced the precipice of damnation.

“_Ace_.”

His voice cracked under the strain of the end of the world.

“_Please._”

Fingers dipped to palm – heart throbbed with insensibility bound tight in the throat of the condemned, the swallow not enough to rid him of the grief that encroached like poison seeping from a spiked blade.

“_Live_.”

Live, _live_.

Live so that he wouldn’t oh-so willingly follow after him, hood down, scythe swinging an arch of decay about the man who would pursue after Death itself as its equal.


	35. Deuce/Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly happy one, this. Poor Deuce ♥

One moment is enough to change the entire world.

One moment; that’s all. A breath, a touch, a stab to a gut. All over. All gone.

All that was built and cultivated, ripped to shreds on the whim of the selfish. The world of the selfish in parallel - the man who, though knows he should, cares not of the dead and only of the still living (for now, until when?) – crumbles to dust.

How cruel, isn’t it, that another can define your life for you, for others. How, up until that morning when the sun shone on through windows to announce the new day, all had been right.

_Right_.

A world in which love was given and taken in equal measures; where the center of the universe resided in the heart of the stars rather than somewhere abstractly impossible. A world where, truthfully, life had found its meaning. Where days were welcomed with a kiss rather than shouts. Where happiness wasn’t far-flung treasure, but general sustenance, taken for granted. He had wanted for nothing— now he held but memories, fleeting as smoke, in cold, dead fingers.

Now, the world shone black, light lost, sun having died and collapsed. In the place of warmth shivered rancid, fetid hate and misery, found in the depths of a tankard meant only for drowning oneself in.

Physical pain could not compare. Within the one left behind (left to die as smoldering ash rather than brilliant flames, twisted and bound in love and in trust) lay a heart once bright and full. Loss had turned it to stone—ice—brittle yet untouchable behind bars behind agony behind justified fury turned inwards like a knife quivering above abdomen. How he, Fool – for all his notable prestige in his abilities to plan ahead and anticipate problems before they were even invented – had failed to act at the crucial moment.

_Go with him_, Reason had urged. _Go with him and keep him safe in his sorrow. Engrave your position into his side and solder yourself to him if you must. Do whatever it takes to keep you both alive._

Instead, he had screamed. Sobbed. Thrown chairs, tables, tantrums like the child he was. When it came down to the moment to act, he had failed. Failed to do the one thing he had sworn to himself he would do.

_For him, I will live._

But was it living if this was the outcome?

_For him, I will survive._

Did purely existing without direction count, now, given that he was gone?

_And one day, for him, I will die._

It was the last thing Deuce could do for Ace. If he could not keep him safe in life – if he could not have been there to follow the Striker, or to surge ahead alone into the jaws of Impel Down, or to be the one to fulfil his one purpose in life and be by Ace’s side no matter what, taking the hit from Akainu himself… then this, surely, would be the right thing to do.

The final test.

_A life lived with no regrets_.

The tears collecting at his chin tasted bitter with the regret he had sworn off a lifetime ago.

_If these were the feelings that he inspired in someone like me, then I must have been the luckiest man alive._


	36. Thatch/Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Since you'd write Marco/Thatch how about Marco kissing Thatch and tasting a dessert Thatch is making?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I didn't upload this here? Or if I did, I can't find it anywhere. This was written on April 12th!

“Are you still pouting?”

Thatch’s shoulders hunched up defensively, back rigid, but he didn’t turn around from his spot at the kitchen worktop. When he didn’t respond, Marco tried again, this time changing up the phrasing a little.

“Thatch, I _know _you’re still pouting. I can see it.”

“How?” Thatch wasn’t able to stop himself snapping, proving Marco to be correct without any effort on his part. “How can you tell just from looking at my back?”

But Marco didn’t say anything, instead sweeping up against his partner and leaning into him. Thatch had two modes of pouting, generally speaking – one where he was irritating and best avoided at any cost, and another where he was really rather cute and fun to tease, like now. After more than twenty years together, Marco never had any difficulty telling which mood Thatch was in – the problem was only when he switched without warning from the good kind to the bad kind.

But today wasn’t going to be one of those days. Marco could feel it.

“You need to relax,” Marco said calmly, wrapping an arm around Thatch’s waist and pulling his hip against his own with a bump, “c’mon, it wasn’t _that_ bad, you’ve had far worse pranks pulled on you before—”

“I’m _offended_ that you don’t see the problem here,” Thatch sniffed, unrelenting to Marco’s hands encircling him, roaming cool over his abdomen in a futile attempt to cheer him up, “_I’m _the messer, not the messee! I don’t _get _pranked, Marco – well, other than by you, but that’s beside the point at the moment – so to have Ace, of all people—”

“He only got you to draw a line down your face,” Marco said fairly, cuddling into Thatch that little bit harder and laying his cheek to a firm bicep, “it’s not that big a deal. I caught him and Deuce shrieking with laughter when they first learned about it and tried it on Skull.”

The trick, they had explained in peals of laughter, was to run a thick black marker pen along the outside ridge of a coin and then hand it to an unsuspecting victim, challenging them to run the coin from forehead to chin without letting it break contact with their face. The victim would then be left with a black line down their face, completely unaware of why everyone who looked at them burst into laughter.

Only Thatch, having fallen for the stupid trick himself, didn’t find it remotely amusing.

“Oh, come _on,_” Marco snickered, patting at Thatch’s tummy through his chef’s apron, “you’d usually _love _a prank like that! Its good-natured, its silly, no one gets hurt…”

“Yes, but right before my division gets pulled into battle?” Marco almost lost control of himself then, biting his lip hard to hold back the snort at the memory of their enemies taking one look at Thatch and whooping with laughter, asking what the hell kind of challenge this was. “I’m not talking to Ace for the rest of the day. I don’t care how childish that is, either,” he added, heading off Marco’s next comment.

“He promised he wouldn’t do it again,” Marco reminded him, but Thatch only sniffed again. Instead, Marco looked down at the jam donuts he was aggressively stuffing (and probably imagining each one was poor Ace, given how venomously he stabbed the instrument into each poor donut). “Is this why you’re making sweets? To siphon your rage?”

“Yup.” Thatch at least smiled at that. “I’m gonna take them out on deck and not offer any to Ace. Little fucker can watch the others enjoy their snacks and not get any himself.”

“Now that’s just nasty,” Marco grinned, letting go of Thatch to swipe a forefinger through a blob of the filling. “Here, open up and say _‘ahh’_ – you could do with sweetening up yourself.”

It was immensely satisfying how Thatch actually did as he was told, sucking the filling right off Marco’s finger with a swirl of his tongue and loud pop on pulling back off. With a defeated sigh he turned his head, ducking just enough to press a kiss to Marco’s lips and spreading the raspberry flavor to his tongue.

“If you keep feeding me with your fingers like that,” Thatch said in a low voice, grinning suggestively, “I’m sure I’ll perk up in no time.”

Marco grinned back, sweeping up more from the rim of the mixing bowl that held the gooey filling.

“Best we test it then, huh?” Marco said, sliding the tip of his finger between Thatch’s lips. “I like my favorite chef best when he’s happy, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I've decided that from now on, my prompt fills will be posted to their own entries instead of in this collection. They will be grouped together in the collection called [Take My Breath Away [Tumblr SFW Prompt Fills]](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017327), which this collection is also part of, so please feel free to subscribe to that if you'd like to keep up with my prompt fills :)
> 
> As ever, I welcome any and all prompts via [Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Chromiwrites)!


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